"Close" - читать интересную книгу автора (Cole Martina)

Chapter One

'He's a spiv, like his old man, but what can you do?' Barry Caldwell held out his arms in supplication and the men in the public house smiled with him. They were strained smiles though, and Barry observed that much and learned a valuable lesson. He had fucked with the wrong person.

Patrick Brodie, however, laughed heartily at the man's words.

It had been said about him in jest many times but he knew it was the truth. Barry had been well and truly had over and, like many a man before him, he was finding out that Patrick Brodie was not a man to cross.

Pat knew, better than any of them, what he was. But unlike the men around him, he knew exactly how far he was prepared to go to get what he wanted. All his life he had been looked down on, abused and treated like shit. This was in part because his father was a big, drunken Irishman with a mouth that ran away with him, and a gambling habit that he had never been able to afford. Consequently, his son, Pat Junior, was close-mouthed, hardly drank, and made his living from the bets amongst other things.

But it was also because he had been abandoned by his mother, had had no formal schooling, dodged the draft with a cheery smile and his natural ambivalence, that made him a law unto himself very early on in life.

He had no intention of fighting for a country that he saw as holding men down and offering them nothing except back-breaking work. He had said as much to his commanding officer. He had also robbed the army stores blind; the black market was still thriving at the time, and he had used that for his own ends.

They'd thrown him in the glasshouse for a year, and in that time he had learned a lot about life, the human condition, but most importantly, he had learned that you had no one to depend on in this life, except yourself.

He had inherited his father's fighting spirit and his absent mother's disregard for others, along with her knack of rewriting history when it suited her, and this had proved to be a winning combination on more than one occasion.

The army had finally waved him off with a sigh of relief and a dishonourable discharge because he fought anyone who disagreed with him about anything. And invariably, he won. He had been as relieved as they were, when they finally parted company.

Now, the last stage of this education was for him to make the final killing and set himself up for life. Barry had tried to have him over, something he would never forgive or forget. Patrick was a force to be reckoned with, and this was made all the more amazing by the fact that he was basically a loner. He worked his scams himself, collected by himself alone, and had garnered a reputation as a man only a fool would cross.

But the main men were old now and, consequently, his job was getting harder and harder. They were like old women, dithering ponces, worried about getting nicked because the judges were suddenly handing out great big lumps and making examples of people. This was now a world waiting to be taken, he was aware of that, and he reassessed his position as and when the occasion merited it.

His father had tolerated hangers-on, had bought himself flaky friendships with pints, with his stories and with his Irish charm. His son, however, trusted no one, needed no one, and his instincts had been proved right time and time again. He had no time for family, none of them had ever been anything except hangers-on, and he had put paid to their leeching. He was a one-man band, he could only trust himself and he accepted that and understood it.

He had a few young men working for him, but he had suddenly realised that after this debacle, he would need to recruit properly. The operation was getting too big for him to work alone. He was lucky that Barry had no serious backup; if he had, then this would end differently.

It was time to share his good fortune, he knew that, but at the moment he was collecting a debt that was long overdue. A debt that Barry had tried to ignore, believing that he would not have the front to come after him.

Brodie's name was synonymous with skulduggery, and he knew that only the rumours surrounding his dishonourable discharge and his phenomenal temper, coupled with the element of surprise, had stood between him and a firearm this night.

But there were others Barry dealt with, and they had their creds. Barry would be all over him like a rash once the shock wore off and he realised that he and his associates were more than capable of taking on a lone man with a large amount of dosh.

He smiled and it occurred to him that whoever he decided to pal up with needed to be a new Face, an up-and-coming lad like himself with the heart and the nerve to take on the more established of their counterparts. The world was changing, and the younger men were needing money and the older men were needing a lesson in the real world. The country was still rebuilding, not only buildings, but the economy, and the pickings were juicy enough to make Brodie not just a man of means, but also a man to be listened to, and more importantly, a man to respect.

Everything had changed with the war, and Patrick had seen that it was a new era coming, and that the new world they would finally inhabit was open to all sorts of money-making schemes. This meant a new criminal fraternity, and Brodie was determined that he would be a big part of that change. It was what he had worked towards, it was what made him the man he was, and it was why Barry was now awaiting his downfall.

It was the sixties, and life was sweet for anyone with a bit of nous and a few quid to sweeten their journey through life.

Patrick was one of the first to challenge the likes of Barry Caldwell and his ilk. It was in with the young and out with the old.

They had all known this day was coming, they had just not had the foresight to make any kind of provision for when it all finally fell out of bed.

Well, fuck them. His rep would gather enough talk tonight to make him a household name in East London. The debt was large and had also been a long time coming, but when he actually went after Barry and his peers and took all their work off them they would understand that he was now not just their equal, but one of their betters. His rep would finally be strong enough for him to become the lynchpin of a new and exciting world that he would not only create, but also control.

The war had separated the men from the boys, and the old men who had ruled because the country's youth had been scattered to the ends of the earth, were now going to find out that it really was about the survival of the fittest.

Their days of being the dog's bollocks were over, finished with, gone. This lot might have been the instigators of this brave new world way back, but they had no control over it any more. They were like fucking antiques, decrepit, and frightened of the new generation who had access to guns and no real fear of the filth. It was time to make his move all right, and he was ready to take the consequences of his actions.

His mind made up, he picked up his beer and, emptying the straight-lined Courage glass of its contents, he proceeded to smash it with all the force he could muster, into Barry Caldwell's chubby, pasty and comically surprised face.

Patrick had the psychological advantage, he had drawn first blood. He was quick to note that none of the men around him tried to intervene, and he knew then, without a shadow of a doubt, that his instincts, as usual, had been spot on.

They all looked defeated, they all looked shocked and they were all frightened that the next person on his agenda was going to be one of them. They were old, old before their time from piss-ups, chain-smoking and easy pickings. None of them had been seriously challenged since their call-up papers, they were rejects, they were from the past, from a life that was grey and empty, and their antiquated moral code stifled younger men like himself. They were carrion, old, wizened wankers. They were finished and they all knew it.

Well, he was still young enough to make his mark, yet old enough to command respect. Pat Brodie was on his way up, and at twenty-nine, he was ready to put his money where his notoriously close mouth was.

The courts were handing out long sentences, and instead of that being a deterrent, it only made him and his counterparts more reckless, more violent, because if they were going to go down then they would make sure it was for a fucking good reason.

He looked down at Barry. Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.

Lily Diamond was tired out. Her shift had been long and her legs were swelling from fourteen hours of standing in a freezing factory on a cold floor, and then waiting over an hour for the bus that dropped her off a ten-minute walk from her home.

As she went into her house, she was already yawning and her mother took her coat from her, hung it on the back of the door and poured her a cup of steaming black tea. Then, with her usual swiftness, she placed a plate of ham and eggs in front of her.

This was all done in silence so as not to wake the drunken man who was quietly snoring on the settee in the small parlour nearby.

Lily smiled at her mother but they both knew it meant nothing, these were two people who had realised that there was no real connection between them many years before.

Lily knew that she looked like her mother. They had the same thick hair and the same grey eyes, their builds were similar enough for people to mistake them for each other from the rear, and they were both blessed with a fantastic bone structure that belied her mother's advancing years, and reassured her daughter that her looks were probably going to last a lot longer than the majority of her friends. But other than that, they were as different in temperament as a dog and a cat.

They had only one thing in common and that was a hatred for the man who ruled their lives, and who terrorised their every waking moment.

Mick Diamond was not her father and she thanked God for that every day of her life, but he had married her mother when she was already pregnant with another man's child, made her respectable and then waited for the children of his own that had never arrived. Consequently, she had not only been resented by him, but also been a constant reminder that it was his fault there were no sons around his table, no children to look to in his old age and no other wages available to assuage his unhappiness by providing him with the alcohol he so desperately craved.

His name would live on through a bastard, through someone else's child. The fact she existed was proof positive that the blame for his wife's childless state must lie with him.

Lily had grown up in a household devoid of any kind of love, or any kind of normality. She had learned at an early age that keeping quiet, staying in the background and trying to be as invisible as possible, was the only way she could hope to survive.

She was a constant reminder to her mother of her shame and a constant reminder to her stepfather of his inability to sire any children of his own. By five, she was a diplomat, already understanding the need to keep both these unstable people happy by not ever making any noise, never demanding their time and most importantly, never bringing any attention to either them or herself from anyone outside their scuffed and well-worn front door.

Now, as a wage earner, she had gained a certain grudging respect, but it had been a long time coming. At fifteen, she understood her life better than people three times her age; she needed to keep the peace until she had enough money to set up on her own, or marry herself out of it all.

As Lily ate, she felt the oppressive atmosphere that always pervaded her home, and she swallowed quickly and quietly as she always had.

Meals were not something to be enjoyed in this house, they were just a necessary part of life, and the social element of eating had never been made apparent to her until she had gone to friends' homes. Seeing them eating leisurely whilst talking about their day or about what was in the newspaper, she had felt as if she was experiencing a revelation not unlike those of St John the Divine.

Until work had claimed her, she had never played outside her house, had never interacted with anyone, at school or otherwise, and she had never realised that her home life was so different to everyone else's.

At school she had been timid, and she had not made friends because her mother and stepfather had never seemed to make any friends either. It was a social skill she had only procured for herself since work had opened her eyes to a world she had never known existed.

At school she had been ridiculed, because of her clothes, her shyness and her terror of mixing with the other children. Her fear of them had given them all the power, but her greatest fear had been of bringing any kind of intrusion into the house she had been brought up in. The fear of someone knocking on the front door for her had caused her to almost faint with fright. Her loneliness had been so acute it had made her ache inside as if she were suffering from some kind of physical illness. Even the most hardened nun had been, to her, a contact with someone other than her parents, and she had relished even the wicked onslaughts of their tongues because at least someone was acknowledging that she existed.

Being part of a crowd was something she now understood, in fact now needed, and more than anything else, it was something she knew was actually keeping her sane. The 'you never had it so good' era had come and gone without anyone in her household mentioning it. But then again, apparently her mother and granny had sat under the kitchen table or in the Anderson shelter in the small backyard and had not once made any kind of comment about the Germans, the war or Hitler himself; they were proud of that fact.

Nothing of note had ever been addressed in this house; it was as if the outside world didn't exist for them. Her granny had died suddenly one night and her mother had hardly mentioned it; she had been slid out of the front door in a wooden box and it had been just another day to them. But at least Lily's burden had been eased a little; her fatherless state had never failed to be mentioned at every available opportunity by her granny, so it was with relief that she mourned her passing.

Lily was scared, all the time she was terrified, but she had never really known what of. It was jumbled inside her head and as no one ever addressed her unless absolutely necessary, it had stayed there.

Her fear had been ignored in the same way she had, and not once had anyone tried to still the terrified beating of her heart, or explain to her that it would all be over soon. It was only at school, when she had eavesdropped on other kids' conversations, that she had an inkling of what other people's lives were about.

Now, the need to escape these people was all-encompassing, the need to cut herself off from them was so overpowering she wondered how they could not hear her thoughts, so loud were they at times, and so vicious, she was frightened of what she might be capable of doing to the pair of them while they slept.

Her mother cleared her plate away and refilled her cup without once speaking to her, and, as always, Lily took her cup of tea up to her tiny bedroom, undressed herself in the dark and lay down in the cold bed to sleep. She was shivering from the cold, and from her deep-seated fear of having to live a broken and lonely life like this for the rest of her days. So stunted were her emotions, though, that even now, at her lowest ebb, it did not occur to her to cry.

Crying had never gained Lily anything, even as a baby it had never brought her mother to her side, and so she did not understand that to most girls of her age it was a powerful weapon to be used, was a tool to be harnessed and eventually unleashed on the men in her life, both old and new, to guarantee that she got exactly what she wanted.

Her life was all wrong, and she knew it, had always known it deep inside, but her foray into the real world had made her not only aware of how it could, indeed should, be lived, it had also made her impatient to leave these two people in her past, and start living her own life in her own way. Without them.

The first thing she would do when she had enough money and confidence to branch out on her own, was to buy herself a wireless.

She was going to surround herself with noise and with people, she was going to make her life mean something, if not to anyone else, then to herself. She wanted colour and sound and laughter, she wanted to feel easy inside, wanted to experience the love of another human being and, most of all, she wanted peace of mind. She needed to feel a part of something bigger than her, bigger than the world that had been forced on her without her knowledge or her permission, wanted to be part of what was happening in the world. Lily Diamond had finally had a taste of reality and she was heady with the feeling of freedom it evoked inside her budding breasts, and she was suddenly beginning to understand just what life was really all about.

Lily Diamond had discovered boys or, more to the point, they had discovered her, and the exciting feelings they could engender inside her body amazed her. She had finally discovered freedom, the power to talk to people and to know they were listening to her. Lily was planning her escape, and it could not come soon enough for her.

She lay in the damp darkness and waited patiently for the sleep that would come because she was bone-weary. She welcomed it, sleep had always been her friend, sleep had been her only escape from a life that was as drab as the rain-sodden streets she walked, as drab as the woman who had borne her. Sleep had always been her only salvation; even God had abandoned her because her mother and father had also controlled what contact she had with him.

As her eyes closed, she was certain that, even though she had no idea what she was going to do when she left this house, once she was far away from the dragging dullness and the quiet desperation of these surroundings, she would miraculously know what to do with her life next.

She wondered if the man with the black car and the scar on his cheek would be there again tomorrow when she went for the bus. She hoped so. He excited her more than the pimply boys she worked alongside, or the clerks that gave her the once-over in the grubby factory offices when she picked up her pay packet.

This man somehow denoted a glamorous danger that, until now, she had only experienced on rare occasions in the lonely darkness of the movie theatre. She was, as the women she worked with would say, an accident waiting to happen.

Pat Brodie had been watching the girl for a while. She was young and that bothered him; he had always gone for brassy blondes with more mileage than an army truck and more carnal knowledge than was good for them. Talented, was how he described them to himself. Those kind of women knew exactly what to expect from him, and they didn't harbour any illusions, had no foolish dreams of marriage, children or, God help him, love. They took what he was willing to give, the three Fs; a fuck, a fiver and some guaranteed fun. Until now, that was all he had wanted, needed.

Now, this young girl who worked in the Black Cat factory where he picked up cigarettes to sell in pubs and clubs for a fraction of their retail price, had got under his skin.

He was a lot older than her and she was far too young for him, but even knowing that, he still thought about her constantly and it was her obvious innocence that attracted him. Her scruffy clothes and defeated look only seemed to enhance her appeal. It was about more than looks, and this was what worried him the most. This young girl had somehow got under his skin. He had never even spoken to her, he did not know her name and he had no reason in the world to feel like he did.

Now, as he watched her walk to the bus stop once more, he saw the lean lines of her body under the shapeless coat, and appreciated the beauty of a face devoid of make-up and knew that the thing he had always dreaded had finally happened. He wanted her in more ways than just the biblical sense.

Getting out of his car, he followed her to the bus stop with a heavy heart and the hope that once she opened her mouth the illusion she created would disappear, that her allure would fade away because of her cockney accent and ignorant choice of vocabulary.

But under the weak light of the street lamp he found himself lost for words. She turned on hearing him approach, her eyes looked into his, and he saw mirrored there the same feelings and emotions as his own. Except her fear was real, he frightened her and this saddened him because he wanted to make her smile, to make her happy. That was his biggest fear: if he wanted to make her happy, he knew he needed her.

They stared at each other for long moments and he saw her physically relax as if he had told her she had nothing to be scared of, as if they had both agreed to become friends.

Her fear disappeared but his own seemed to increase along with his nervousness.

'Well?' Her voice was low, deep in fact, almost a whisper, and he heard the tremor of excitement the fear inside her caused. He knew then that she had been expecting him, that she welcomed his interest, understood somehow that he meant her no harm.

When she arched one well-plucked eyebrow in enquiry, he also knew then and there that he would never rest until she was his.

She suddenly had all the power and they both knew that, but he didn't care, he was just happy to be near her.

Mick Diamond looked at his stepdaughter in unconcealed disbelief and his wife Annie, he knew, was staring at him in exactly the same way.

'What did you say?' Lily's voice was as always low and respectful when talking to this huge mountain of red flesh and uncertain temper.

'I said, keep your money, girl…'

Lily Diamond had been trying to save her money for ages, but no matter where she hid it, this man found it and spent it without a second's thought. Her mother had no idea she had been given a raise and she had kept the few bob aside, and because of that, she could never say out loud that this man had robbed her while she slept or while she worked. If her mother had known, she would not have had the money anyway, it would have been taken from her immediately.

Now he was standing before her and telling her, civilly mind, that she was not to give over her few bob. She was to keep it, and the most damaging and terrifying remark of all was that he had said she was to treat herself. This, she decided, had to be a new trick of some kind and she tensed up even more, waiting for the blow, the sarcastic remark or the derisory laughter that always made her feel like she was nothing.

She glanced at her mother and knew that she was waiting for the same reaction. What seemed like light-years passed by, each second dragged out almost tangibly in the heavy quiet of the kitchen. Still, it didn't come.

This was a new game then. She had survived worse so she stayed quiet and waited until she knew exactly what she was dealing with, her eyes trained on the money lying there so innocently on the tablecloth, her shoulders aching with the tension this house brought into her bones as soon as she entered the front door.

Mick Diamond looked at the girl and saw the attraction of her to a man like Brodie. He also saw his nemesis; this child could be the death of him with a careless word, because her name was now being coupled publicly and, he was amazed to hear, respectfully, with Patrick Brodie. The sweat was trickling down his face and dripping on to his vest, his hands were trembling and his wife was thankfully struck dumb at his demeanour and his words.

Lily herself, he saw, thought he was baiting her, and this fact worried him even more. It was obvious to him that she didn't know her strength yet, that she didn't understand the power she now wielded and he wanted to get on her good side before she did.

He only hoped it wasn't too late.

'Make the child some tea, woman, and some for meself and all. She's been working all day.'

He smiled at Lily and she looked at her mother as if for guidance.

Annie looked as bewildered as Lily knew she did herself.

Her mother moved with her customary nervousness, the teacups clattering in her shaking hands. Both were wondering if this was a new game of his, a game where he pitted himself against the two of them. He was a bully and he knew his strengths.

He smiled as he lit a Senior Service and, pulling deeply on the cigarette, he held out his arm in a gesture of friendly amiability. He was, Lily realised, offering her a chair.

She sat, as always doing his bidding, even though her hatred of him was so acute she could taste it.

'So where did you meet Mr Brodie then, eh?'

Then she understood, and for the first time ever, she knew how fear could bring you peace of mind, and how fear could change your life for the better. As long as it wasn't your own fear of course.

And as she had lived in abject terror for the best part of her young life, this feeling was wonderful, it was like being released from servitude; she knew that no matter what happened, this man would never frighten her again. He looked smaller already, somehow pathetic and old; his body was hunched over and she knew her own body was now straighter. Patrick had given her respect inside this house and for that alone she would love him to the day she died.

She had the power now, and it was all thanks to her Patrick, Patrick Brodie, the man she was going to marry.

She scooped up her wages from the kitchen table and placed them in her overall pocket. Then she took out her packet of cigarettes and dared to light one in front of her parents and, puffing deeply, she said quietly, 'Tea would be lovely, thanks.'

Her stepfather motioned to his wife and she actually poured the tea then, her mind racing on overtime at what had befallen her daughter and ultimately, she hoped, had befallen herself.

Patrick Brodie was a byword these days, and she knew that if her daughter had managed to snag a fine piece of manhood like him then she had to take the proverbial hat off to her.

Even as the jealousy kicked in, she was, like her husband, looking for ways to utilise the relationship for her own benefit.

This time the tea had sugar as well as milk, and as Lily Diamond lit another cigarette she hoped and prayed that Patrick didn't tire of her, because if he did, these two would slaughter her without a second's thought.

'You having me on?' Billy Spot was laughing, but the laughter was with the subject of his humour, definitely not against him, nor his notoriously flimsy pride.

Since taking out Barry Caldwell, this young man had become an overnight sensation and Billy, being Billy, was waiting to see if this lad's new-found status was going to be a fixture. He had seen them come and go over the years, he knew the score in their game. It was how you survived, you either outlived, or you out-boxed your opponents. At the moment, Pat was the dog's knob and he would worship at his altar if that was what it took to keep himself in the running. He was a follower, not a leader, he knew that better than anyone. But he knew Barry's death had caused ripples through their world and he also knew that retribution was on its way. He had funded it himself, along with a few other cronies. He could afford to be friendly, but he had no intention of giving up his pavement without a fight.

'She seems a nice girl though.' The laughter was gone now, he was all respect and feigned interest.

Pat smiled then. 'She is.'

Pat actually liked Billy and he saw his Lil as on a par with Billy's old woman. She was also a civilian and had never been inside any of her old man's clubs, and had no reputation to speak of. She produced children with the minimum of fuss and she lied to the Old Bill as and when the occasion warranted it. In short, she was a good bird and Billy worshipped the ground she walked on.

Like Billy, he too wanted a brahma, a good girl. He wanted someone he could trust even if he got himself a twenty. And his instincts told him that all these attributes were possessed by the young girl he had become besotted with. And he was besotted. He had not wanted another woman for weeks, and for him that was like not wanting a drink or a deal.

In short, it was unheard of.

He had other things on his mind and once they were dealt with, he could relax and court his girl in peace. He was making himself a decent living so that once he was married he could live like a king.

Unfortunately, that involved stepping on more than a few toes, but he was prepared for the fallout and more than eager to take up any reins that might come his way.

He was a chancer like his father, but unlike his father he liked to make sure that anything he accrued stayed close by. He guessed that Billy, like Barry, was not allowing for his acumen in this new world of skulduggery. Respecting your elders was a luxury these days, and the sooner the silly old fuckers realised that, the better off they would all be.

'Do you have a problem with me outing drugs, Bill?'

Billy shrugged, and Patrick was impressed at the way the man acted so nonchalantly when they both knew the score; he was taking Billy's businesses over gradually and irrevocably. Billy Spot's workforce were now all working in some way for him.

It was a checkmate situation and Patrick hoped that Billy would understand that and not grieve too much over times gone by.

He had heard the rumours about retribution for Barry and he watched his back, but he also accepted it as part and parcel of their choice of career.

Billy's day was long gone, he had made the mistake all powerful men make; he hadn't been on the actual street for years. He was told only what he wanted to hear and he couldn't cap anyone himself, relying on heavies to do his dirty work. He was an embarrassment to all and sundry.

Pat knew the man was waiting to see whether he could keep up this dangerous façade, and if he could, he knew he would have a partner, if not in crime, then at least at the local drinking establishments. He had been willing to use Billy even though he knew the man and his cronies were putting up pound notes to bring about his demise. None of them had liked Barry as such, but none of them wanted to be Barry.

He understood that, except if he had been in Billy's shoes he would have been dead by now.

'You jammy little mare!'

Constance White looked at the young girl packing cigarettes expertly into boxes beside her, and her grin was friendly and amiable. 'Fuck me, girl, you got Pat Brodie! Most of his amours end up calling him Glenn Miller and that's because he normally goes on the missing list.'

Everyone laughed, and Lily went bright red with embarrassment.

At twenty, Constance was already married and had two children; her husband was a no-neck with acne scars and the conversation of an African elephant. So she envied this little piece even as she admired her. Many women had tried to snag Brodie, herself included, but he had slipped away like an oily chain. Good-looking girl though, and men like Brodie liked the innocent look, in a wife anyway. Like all men he wanted to be sure that any children carrying his name were actually his. No cuckoos in the nest for him. He was thirty if he was a day and she was fifteen; he must think all his Christmases and birthdays had come at once.

But it was the change in Lily that amazed Constance. The girl had grown into herself overnight, had started walking tall, she spoke before she was spoken to and she had the flushed cheeks of a girl ripe for the marriage bed.

Connie, as she was called, knew that this child, and she was a child for all her mature looks, was not going to be one of Brodie's usual shack-ups. He wanted this one to breed with, and she had a feeling Lily would amaze them all.

Lily smiled happily; thanks to Pat she was set for life, and this factory and all it entailed would be a thing of the past soon. As soon as she hit sixteen she was gone.

Thunderclap Newman came on the radio and she sang along with her workmates; there definitely was something in the air.

Patrick affected her in so many ways, and as she packed her cigarettes she dreamt of his body touching hers, and longed for the kisses she was sure to get once the night drew in and they were alone in his car.

Billy Spot was standing outside his nightclub in Soho with his girlfriend on his arm. A redhead called Velma, she had all his usual prerequisites; big tits, nice teeth and long skinny legs. Billy was wearing his customary attire: black Crombie overcoat, pin-stripe suit and an expensive cigar.

He was amazed to see his girlfriend start walking quickly away from him, extricating herself from his flabby arms even as he saw with his peripheral vision young Patrick Brodie pull a gun from underneath his coat. He was a dead man and he knew it.

He hit the floor with the minimum of fuss and Patrick was gone before anyone thought of calling in the law to make things look above board, look normal. The gun was dispatched into the Thames, and Billy's associates were aware of his demise within hours. It made no odds to them; he was a nice bloke but as they all remarked in private, business was business.

It was out with the old and in with the new. Pat had decided, on the spur of the moment, to erase the older man and open up the streets properly. Spot had cunted him to a close associate, and that was something he was not about to allow. He was not going to ponce around any more, he had Lil, and he wanted it all.

Pat bought the rest of the London consortium out with little fuss; he was too young and too dangerous for them and they all decided to retire from the game. He had everyone behind him and he had the edge because of that. This new generation were nutcases; they wanted it all and they wanted it as quickly as possible. Drugs had moved the goal posts and the old lot didn't want any part in it.

Billy should have seen that coming.