The sky above New Scotland Yard in the Curtis Green building on the Victoria Embankment was overcast and heavy. In the room, the atmosphere matched it. DI Trevor Mills and DS Bob Wallace were quietly discussing the events south of the river when the senior man came in and took his seat. DCI Stanford didn’t acknowledge them.
Stanford dropped a manila folder on the table and pushed it away, his eyes travelling over their faces – men he trusted; people with more in common than anyone could ever know.
He let the silence do its work before he spoke. ‘As you can imagine, it hasn’t been a great morning so far. I’ve just come from a meeting with the commissioner, among others. Without going into details let me say… it wasn’t pleasant.’
Stanford drew a deep breath and blew it out. ‘Before that, I had a chat with Danny Glass. Another experience I didn’t enjoy very much. Mr Glass wanted to tell me in person how disappointed he is with our performance and, despicable fucking low life that he is, I agree with him. So, a simple question. What happened?’
Trevor Mills shot an anxious look at Bob Wallace. The detectives had risen through the ranks and prided themselves on having their fingers on the pulse of the city’s underworld. On the evidence, those fingers had been somewhere else.
Stanford said, ‘I’ll put it another way. What the fuck happened yesterday and why were we the last to hear about it?’
Blank expressions.
He drew the folder towards him and held it in the air. ‘This initial report is crap. Absolute bollocks. Statements, eyewitness accounts, all of it. A gigantic exercise in time-wasting. Why? Because we know – the whole of South London knows – Anderson is responsible. I could’ve written it up without getting out of this chair and made it more believable.’
He glared at his fellow officers; his features taut with loathing. No humiliating third degree for them. They avoided making eye contact. Their record was as solid as anybody’s in the Met and it was rare for the boss to lose his temper. When he did, the smartest thing was to keep your head down until the hurricane blew itself out.
Stanford got himself under control. Losing it wouldn’t get them anywhere.
‘Glass is angry. I don’t blame him, don’t blame him at all. In his shoes, I’d feel exactly the same. He’s alive, no thanks to us.’
DS Wallace raised his hand. ‘Why not just let them get on with it?’
A look passed between Stanford and DI Mills. Mills was a sallow, intelligent man with sharp eyes and a quick mind; quietly efficient and still ambitious, even after twenty years on the force. The two senior officers had worked closely together for ten of those years and were friends who knew everything about each other. Mills answered his colleague.
‘Am I hearing right? If you really think that’s an option, you’re in the wrong room.’
‘I’m serious. Let them kill each other – it’s what they want. Save ourselves a lot of trouble.’
Stanford stepped between them. He didn’t mind friction; it showed passion, and passion was a necessity in successful police work. Now wasn’t the time – they were under pressure, which was only going to get heavier. The DCI saw his career stalling and that wasn’t in the plan.
‘We have a triple murder on our patch and already the media are jumping up and down calling it the first shots in a turf war. The home secretary and the prime minister are concerned, naturally. Likewise, Sir Ian. Cowboy shoot-outs on the streets of the capital aren’t what the commissioner likes to read about over his eggs Benedict. He’ll be making a statement later and stressed how important it is to prevent any escalation of violence. On top of that, the mayor’s in on the act. Banging his drum about the capital’s murder rate. It’s up this year, as if we didn’t know. He’s expecting us, not unreasonably, to bring it down to something that doesn’t make his well-known position on law and order look silly. Not hard to see where he’s coming from, is it?’
He paused. ‘And that brings us to our own little dilemma. We’ve cocked up and I want somebody to tell me why. Anderson’s a vicious bastard, same as his old man, but you couldn’t accuse him of being bright, so it isn’t possible nobody knew what was going to go off. Yet the word didn’t get through. Why is that?’
Wallace came in again. ‘At the risk of getting shot down in balls of shit, how certain are we it was Anderson? I mean, Glass isn’t short of enemies.’
‘True, except yesterday his brother, Luke – the guy who sent Albert Anderson over the edge of a high-rise – came out of Wandsworth. There was a party in their pub. The three of them should’ve been there – Danny, Luke and their sister, Nina. They weren’t, that’s why they’re still breathing. Rollie’s waited seven years. Seems he thought that was long enough.’
‘The brother was the target?’
Stanford said, ‘Glass certainly thinks so. He wants us to protect Luke. Round the clock.’
Wallace wouldn’t let it go. ‘Isn’t he capable of looking after his own?’
‘He’s getting his money’s worth, Bob. Wouldn’t you?’
Stanford anticipated the next question. ‘And before you ask about overtime, the commissioner approved it an hour ago in the interests of containing the situation. He realises there’s no love lost. Albert Anderson murdered Glass’s wife and daughter in a car bomb. Luke sorted old Albert’s hash for good. It’s a tinderbox that’s been smouldering away for years. Could go off at any minute and seems like it’s going to. These people are locked together by family and history: Rollie adored his old man – Christ alone knows why – and Danny brought Luke and his sister up after their mother abandoned them and their father died of drink. Anything happens to his brother… remember who we’re dealing with. Glass is a psychopath. But he’s our psychopath. And don’t forget it. Nobody benefits from a bloodbath. Too much publicity. The last thing we need is Channel Four doing an in-depth profile on gangland London and, inevitably, asking what the hell we’re doing about it. Your informants must think you’re pushovers. Let them know that isn’t the case. As for the investigation—’ he flung the folder into the middle of the table ‘—go over this junk. And get it right this time. I want proof. Anderson has to go down for this.’
He stood. ‘Oh, one more thing. Glass doesn’t intend to sit quietly while Albert’s boy tries to do him in. He plans to hit him where it’ll hurt, in his pocket. That takes information. Get anything and everything you can dig up about Rollie’s operation. Lean on whoever you need to get it. Keep Glass believing we’re on his side.’
Mills offered some black humour. ‘And aren’t we?’
It didn’t get a laugh. Stanford took the question seriously. ‘Actually, no, we aren’t. There’s only one side and that’s our side.’
The officers headed for the door. Trevor Mills held back. ‘What’s up with Wallace? His attitude seems… strange.’
The same thought had crossed Stanford’s mind. ‘I agree. Keep an eye on him, Trevor. We can’t afford any more cock-ups.’
Mills let his anxiety show. ‘How bad is it really, boss?’
‘Bad. Glass is almost out of control. If Anderson is stupid enough to attack him again, it’ll be a battlefield down there and, whatever the commissioner chooses to tell the PM, there won’t be anything we can do to stop it.’
‘What if Anderson wins?’
‘Then we’d better pray he leaves Danny Glass dead. I’ll tell you, Trevor, there would be a reckoning. He’d take us down with him. All it would need is a word in the right ear.’
He allowed the consequences to sink in.
‘Everything would come out. We’d be finished.’
We drove in silence through streets I should have recognised but didn’t. This time yesterday I was stepping into the world, determined to make a fresh start. A day later I’d had a hangover, a hooker, a face-to-face with a bent detective chief inspector and somebody had tried to kill me. A busy beginning. Thanks to Rollie Anderson it looked like the old band was getting back together after all. I parked behind a building on a concrete space of open ground strewn with broken glass and unfastened my seat belt. Felix did the same.
‘Don’t bother, you’re not coming.’
‘Thought I was supposed to go everywhere with you?’
‘Not everywhere.’
Felix wasn’t having it. ‘Sorry, Luke. Danny wants me glued to you. I’m coming.’
In the bank, he browsed through leaflets on savings accounts and mortgages while a girl with Rasta curls and dark brown eyes gave me a printout of my balance and went into her routine. I could see her mentally going through her lines. When she was ready, she cleared her throat, fluttered her eyelashes and said, ‘You have a substantial sum in your account, Mr Glass. Would you like some advice about what investments offer the best return?’
‘No, thanks.’
‘Are you sure? I could check if one of our advisors is available to speak to you.’
‘No, I’m fine.’
Without missing a beat, she moved to the next page from the training manual.
‘Have you decided what you intend to do with your capital?’
‘I’ve got a vivid imagination. I’ll think of something.’
She smiled a wooden smile. ‘Is there anything else I can help with? Anything at all?'
‘Really, I’m fine. Thanks for your help.’
I put the statement in my pocket and resisted the urge to discover how much a ‘substantial sum’ was until I had a drink in front of me. Felix followed me out the door.
And there it was again, that feeling.
Felix picked up on the change in me – his hand went to the gun under his jacket in a reflex reaction. ‘What is it?’
I looked up and down the street. ‘No, it’s nothing.’
But the sensation didn’t shift.
The Admiral Collingwood rose like a ghost ship in full sail, stately and majestic on the corner. The Admiral was the kind of place my father had drunk in, a no-frills boozer that smelled the way pubs used to smell at opening time – a mix of hops and disinfectant. Danny bought me my first pint in the snug when I was fifteen, him doing the talking while I stayed in the background trying to look older.
In the old days, the barman was an ex-boxer with a million stories about what went on behind the scenes in the fight game. Fantastic tales you couldn’t invent because he already had. If you believed him, he’d rubbed shoulders with the best of them. He was a character, a teller of tall tales, and he drew a following that stood at the bar egging him on. He was a likeable blowhard with the quality great barmen had; on a rainy Tuesday night when you were the only one in the place, he’d drop the act and become a guy you could have a conversation with. Good listener, too. Being deaf in one cauliflower ear probably didn’t help.
One thing about him: he always looked pleased to see you. Not so the dour-faced weedy bloke in a grey cardigan pulling pints now, who turned a passive-hostile expression on me and drained the double whisky I’d asked for from an optic without so much as a word. The Admiral had gone the way of everything I’d come across. Felix stood with his back against the bar, taking in everything and everyone in the room. I couldn’t complain; the guy was keen, anxious to make amends for his mistake during the raid.
‘Orange juice okay for you?’
His face brightened when the barman put the pint I’d ordered in front of him.
I wiped crisps off a table at the back, sat down and opened the statement. The girl at the bank had been anxious to help. Now I understood why. Business had been good while I was away. Albert Anderson might’ve been an evil old fucker but he’d known how to turn a coin. With him out of the picture it had been easy for Danny to take over some of his territory. This was my share. Seven years’ worth. And it was a lot.
I was struggling to get a hold on my new financial status when a blast from the past walked in the door: Vincent Finnegan.
Finnegan and Sean Poland, another Irishman, worked for my brother doing jobs where finesse wasn’t a requirement. They were an odd couple and they stuck together. You bumped into one, you could bet the other wasn’t far away. I hadn’t met either of them since before the trial and remembered Poland as stocky and quiet. More than quiet, deep; the type you’d stay on nodding terms with for a lifetime. Finnegan was the opposite, a swaggering bastard with plenty to say for himself: streetwise, handsome and, like his pal, tough as buggery. In those days he’d been a sharp dresser, spending most of his money on clothes. The snappy image added menace, though he wasn’t short in that department whatever he was wearing. Danny hadn’t employed the paddys for their good looks or social skills. If you were unfortunate enough to have them appear on your doorstep you were in the shit. Today there was no sign of Poland. Finnegan was by himself.
A morning of surprises didn’t prepare me. Vincent Finnegan’s swagger was replaced by a limp, his coat had seen better days and he leaned on a stick. He squeezed in at the end of the bar, ordered a drink and counted change to pay for it into his hand with the deliberation of a backward child. It didn’t take a genius to figure that, physically as well as financially, Vincent had gone down in the world.
We were never friends – his kind didn’t do friends – but he was a familiar face in an alien landscape and once upon a time he’d been a force to be reckoned with. Except, that was then. Today he was a disabled man in middle age, watching the pennies. I’d no idea who Danny had on the payroll these days. Finnegan couldn’t be one of them. Not in this state.
He took a sip of his beer and looked round the bar, but I was beside him before he realised I was there. Up close, the skin on his forehead was dry; dandruff gathered like confetti on his collar. It took him a moment to recognise me. When he did, he tried to shuffle away. I put a hand on his shoulder and stopped him.
‘Hi, Vincent. Long time no see.’
He shrank from me, fear in his eyes. A nervous smile appeared and disappeared, then returned as he pretended to be pleased to see me. We shook hands and I said, ‘This your local?’
He was reluctant to commit himself. ‘I come in most days, yeah. When did they let you out?’
‘Yesterday.’
He nodded. ‘Hung over?’
‘Nothing a hair of the dog won’t fix.’
‘Party, was there?’
‘Didn’t fancy it. Gave it a miss.’
Vincent made a face. ‘Then you’re a brave man.’
‘What makes you say that?’
He didn’t reply and changed the subject. ‘Any plans?’
‘Too soon.’
‘Yeah.’ He shuffled his feet. ‘It takes the time it takes.’
‘What about you?’
‘Retired.’
‘You’re kidding, you’re too young. Nobody told me you’d packed it in. Thought you were still working for Danny.’
The mention of my brother’s name brought a change in his expression.
‘Not for a while.’
‘What’re you doing?’
‘Bit of this, bit of that. Getting by.’
He didn’t look like a man who was getting by. I realised it was kinder not to ask too many questions. ‘Listen, I’ll put a word in. Tell him you could do with a tickle.’
He scratched the stubble on his jaw. ‘Rather you stayed out of it, Luke. Danny and me didn’t end well.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘There was a… a misunderstanding.’
‘A misunderstanding? What you on about?’
I’d touched a nerve.
‘Leave it, will you?’
Vincent was part of the original team. He and my brother went way back. Being told something had come between them was difficult to believe. Yet something had because Finnegan couldn’t get away from me fast enough. He gulped down his pint and put a hand on my shoulder. ‘Good seeing you. Always liked you. I’m fine. Honest. Take care of yourself. And, Luke, watch your back, eh?’
He limped to the door and tried some of his old bravado on for size, gave me a thumbs-up and winked. Jack the Lad to the end.
‘Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do, kid.’
From what I remembered of Vincent, that gave me plenty of scope.