The Life (45 page)

She nodded. ‘It does. Yeah.’

She saw him narrow his eyes, and she knew she had hit the nail right on the proverbial head. ‘You leave her alone, Petey. I know you better than you know yourself. What’s bred in the bone, comes out in the blood. You’re what we used to call in Ireland a cock man – you see a hen at every opportunity, and you live for the chase.’

He laughed, trying to diffuse the situation. ‘I hold me hands up! I like the ladies, but I know where to draw the line. She’s my fucking cousin! Give me some credit, will you?’

Theresa let it drop; she had made her point, and he was aware that she was on to him. It pained her to admit that, as much as she loved her eldest grandson, it had been many years since she had actually liked him.

Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Williams was a strange man, but Danny Bailey liked him. He was as bent as a corkscrew, and he had the mentality needed to differentiate between certain crimes. He would hunt down a rapist or a nonce, with the tenacity of a Rottweiler, but he was quite happy to turn his eyes away from certain other criminal activities. He was never backwards in coming forwards, especially when it came to his price – and he priced himself highly. But he was a man who could find out literally anything. He was not that tall, but he had bulk and, coupled with his bald head, deep-set blue eyes, and pock-marked skin, he looked more like a villain than a Filth.

‘Hello, Danny. My condolences.’

Danny nodded, and poured the man his usual – a large neat Grey Goose over ice. The man sank it in two gulps and held his glass out for an immediate refill.

‘Hit the fucking spot, I tell you. Traffic is murder out there. Fucking hours to get through the congestion! I’ve seen babies born quicker.’

Danny placed the bottle of Grey Goose vodka and the ice bucket on the table; experience had told him that was the best thing when dealing with Williams. He was a functioning
alcoholic, and he was actually quite proud of that fact – he brought it into conversation at every opportunity.

Williams poured himself another large drink before saying, ‘So, young Danny, I am assuming this ain’t a date. What do you want?’

Danny sipped his brandy delicately. ‘I need some information, but it has to be between me and you – a private transaction. The family can’t know about it.’

Williams laughed. ‘Like that, is it? Has this anything to do with your recent problems?’

Danny nodded.

‘I hear your family have been on to every bent Filth they own – but no one came near me. So why now? I deal with nonces and murderers, the occasional high-end drug dealer or blagger. I am a legend in my own lunchtime, as you well know.’

Danny laughed; this man was a riot. One arrogant ponce, as his father would say. ‘I want you to get me copies of all the fingerprints and all the forensics from the bombing. Could you do that?’

Williams frowned; he was genuinely puzzled. ‘But your family have already got all that, or so I heard anyway. West End Central was buzzing afterwards.’

Danny grinned. ‘It was damage limitation, that was all.’

‘I guessed as much. I can’t see terrorists really bothering about you lot, but the papers do love a fucking good story, don’t they? How much did it cost to set that rumour abroad?’

Danny shrugged. ‘Enough. But what I want now, Chris, is
everything
. I want copies of everything pertaining to the bombing, I want all the paperwork connected to it and I want copies of the original documents.’

Williams was genuinely perplexed. ‘Are you saying you were short-changed?’

‘I’m saying I want you to do this for me as a personal favour, and I want you to buy the necessary papers from someone who my family has never dealt with before. There’s a hundred grand if you can deliver. Two hundred if you can deliver within three days.’

Williams poured another Grey Goose, and he swallowed it quickly. He was running names through his mind, working out how he could accomplish what had been asked. He was ticking off possible candidates he could approach, working out what he had on certain people, and how much it would cost him to buy their services.

Finally, after what seemed an age, he smiled at Danny Bailey and, raising his glass in a toast, he said confidently, ‘Consider it done.’

Danny nodded. ‘I also want everything they have on Terrence Allen’s death.’

Williams sat back in his chair; he was aware there was a hidden agenda here, and he respected that. He was sensible enough to know that this man had his reasons, and they did not concern him. ‘As I said, Danny, consider it done.’

Liam heard his brother before he saw him, and he was relieved that they would be alone in the office. As ever, Petey was all noisy, good-humoured bonhomie, hailing everyone he saw, from the lowest waitress to the Faces propping up their bar, and it irritated Liam. His brother was the sole reason for his discontent. Petey believed that he could do and say what he wanted without fear or favour. He needed to be knocked down and reminded that he was only there because he had the name Bailey.

Petey came into the room acting the archetypal London criminal, the old-style Face. He even dressed the part and, nine times out of ten, he could pull it off. Petey had more personalities than a fucking chat show, but Liam knew that none of them were the real Petey Bailey. His brother was a fucking fake, albeit a good one; he could talk his way out of a snake’s belly.

Petey laid a package on the table between them, and said jovially, ‘Here you are, bruv. You can stop pissing your fucking pants now like a big girl’s blouse. I told you I could replace it, didn’t I?’ It was said as a statement – no answer required;
he was just proving a point, as always.

Liam picked the package up warily; he had been here too many times before. ‘You can’t just act like this is fuck-all, Petey. You do realise you nearly buried us both?’

Petey grinned that handsome grin that made the women’s hearts melt and the men think he was one of the original good guys.
‘Give it a rest, Liam! You know as well I do, we
earn
our crusts, mate. We do our jobs but, in reality, we are still no more than fucking bus boys. The old man ain’t going to ever let us have our fucking due. We have the right to take it.’

‘We don’t do that bad, Petey, and you know it.’

Petey laughed; Liam could be a real pain at times. ‘Face it, he still treats us like kids, for fuck’s sake.’

Liam could see the truth of his brother’s argument, but he could also see his father’s side. They were getting a good wedge, but when you weighed it up with what they actually brought in for the family, it looked like a pittance. It
wasn’t
– it was a fucking good earn and, unlike Petey, Liam understood that money had to be invested and he didn’t spend every penny he had as soon as it hit his wallet. He had a family to support – Amanda and Bernard relied on him and he took that responsibility very seriously.

Petey was greedy, always had been. He spent his whole life trying to catch up with himself, whereas the other boys managed to live within their means. Even fucking Jamsie could balance his chequebook, and that was no mean feat for him; Jamsie had the brain power of a fucking politician – he listened and repeated anything he thought sounded sensible. But he still managed to pay his bills and spend his earn wisely.

When Petey gambled he bet huge amounts because he was convinced that there would always be more money coming in – he was a Bailey, after all. But even a Bailey could push certain people too far, and that was what was happening now. Petey had run up bills, and bills had to be paid. Petey should know that better than anyone – he had hammered enough people because they owed the family; it was a part of the job description:
thou shalt not shaft the people you owe money to. People were demanding their poke, and they had every right to do that.

‘Well, clever bollocks, I think you need a reality check. I’ve had three different families ask me to have a word with you on the quiet about your mounting debts. Do you not see how that looks to outsiders? You are running up bills all over the Smoke because of your gambling, and you don’t think the people concerned are going to ask for what they are owed? Are you that fucking stupid? I’ve batted them off, but if they go to the old man next time, do you honestly think he will just pay them, and then forget about it?’

Petey shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I always pay me debts – I just needed a bit more time, that’s all. It’s not like we can’t afford it, is it? For fuck’s sake, if
we
can’t be trusted then who can? So I like a fucking flutter now and again? So fucking what? In case it has escaped
your
notice, gambling is actually fucking legal in this country – unlike the majority of our other businesses.’

Liam was aware that his brother was actually serious; he could hear the exasperation in his voice. Liam closed his eyes; it was like talking to a brick wall. ‘It’s not just about the gambling, Petey, and you know it. It’s about you running up enormous fucking slates, slates you know you will have trouble clearing, so you go somewhere else, and then start the whole fucking thing again. I had the Bowes brothers in here last night. I know you don’t want to hear this, but Jimmy Bowes is more than capable of shooting you if you cunt him off. He is a man of morals, and if he thinks you have mugged him off, he would see his actions as perfectly reasonable. I paid him, Petey, but he told me to tell you that you are not welcome in his clubs any more.’

Petey laughed; he could not for the life of him understand why his brother was making such a big deal about this. ‘So what?
Fuck him! The Bowes! I’m shaking in my fucking boots! Shall I
organise a minder? Joseph Bowes couldn’t shoot his way out of a wet paper bag. He’s a fucking idiot.’

Liam shook his head, and bellowed, ‘Well, for your information, the old man loves him! He sees him as a good bloke – just like everyone else does! He’s never been late with a payment in his life, and he always pays up with a smile but, more to the point, he understands the importance of keeping a low fucking profile. Whereas you are the talk of London lately, and it’s a fucking miracle that no one has mentioned it to the old man. He has a lot on his mind at the moment so you’ve had a swerve, but he won’t relish hearing that you are back to your old ways.’

Petey didn’t answer his brother, but he knew he was right. Liam was only trying to help him, and that just made it worse. He hated being reminded of his failings, but he prided himself on not being as docile as the others – they would still be tugging their fucking forelocks at sixty if they weren’t careful. He wasn’t going to wait around for fucking years until his old man, or his cunt of an uncle, either died of cancer or, knowing his luck, fucking advanced old age; he wanted what he was due
now
. Petey felt he was already getting on; he had decided it was time to settle down, to convince his old man that he was finally getting his act together. But he felt like a fucking idiot – he was no better off than when he had been a teenager. He would spend his whole life in his father’s shadow if he didn’t take matters into his own hands.

He resented the fact that he had no real authority; his father and his uncle still had the final say on everything. Dumb and fucking dumber – and they still had the fucking world by the gonads. They gave fucking Delroy more clout than they gave their own sons! They were like a pair of fucking Duracell batteries; they went on and on. It was ridiculous. They were
never going to retire; in his opinion they needed shooting like a pair of knackered old horses. His father was still giving him orders – it was outrageous. He was stuck in his father’s shadow – he was the heir-in-waiting, but he had waited far too long already.

Petey realised he had to try and placate this brother of his; Liam was a good bloke, but he was too weak to see that they were being taken advantage of, that they were being fucked over on a daily basis.
They
took all the risks, while the old man creamed in the money.

‘Look, Liam, I know I sail close to the wind at times, but I’ve always had your back, and I can’t help my personality, can I? I always pay what I owe eventually, and you know that.’

Liam looked at his elder brother, and fought the urge to smack him right across his face. If he paid what he owed they wouldn’t be having this conversation! Petey Bailey had always travelled on a different bus route to everyone else. He was a liability, an accident waiting to happen – it was just a question of
when
.

‘Do you know what? Fuck
you
, Petey! Do what you like, but don’t say I didn’t try and help you. Jack’s long gone, and the old man loved him, but he was still willing to take him out for the good of the family. I don’t think you understand the old man at all. I don’t think you can see that being a Bailey means a lot more to Dad than just fucking acting the part. He is beside himself with guilt over Auntie Lena’s death, and I think you know that he will not be thwarted. You’re my brother, and I love you, Petey, but I’m sick to death of you – you need to remember that. I ain’t covering your back any more – in future you sort your problems out yourself. Oh, and one last word. You better talk to the Patels before they go to the old man for restitution. The East-End Asian boys are a fucking big outfit
now; they are not averse to chasing up money owed – and they don’t give a fuck who you are either. And, from what they told me last night, you owe them a small fortune, bruv.’

Petey Bailey looked at his younger brother, and he did appreciate that he was trying to help him. But Petey was, as always, in possession of a completely different opinion to everyone else; he believed that
he
was in the right.

Liam was like their cousins – happy to toe the line, and be grateful for everything; well,
he
wasn’t. The Patels and the Bowes were nothing to him. If his old man would just stand aside and give him his due, he wouldn’t need to fucking creep about. The Bailey family
owned
fucking casinos; they were the sponsors for big-money poker games, and he was reduced to this.