The iconic Tower of London was a place Stone knew well. It held memories that would always be with him. It was with a gang of boys when he was thirteen or fourteen years old that he would ride the Underground trains from this place. They ran bets to see how far they could ride without being stopped by a ticket inspector. Stone was proud that he had won the race many times. And today – a bumpy, noisy ride on an electric train from the Tower of London to Plaistow, a station in London’s East End – brought back nostalgic thoughts. For a moment, he saw how quickly his life had passed him by from those days to a finale that would soon be upon him.
From Plaistow station it was only a short walk through familiar streets to Xavier’s place in the High Road. He had been there before, two years ago, to deal with the snarling menace of Xavier and his gang of narcotics dealers. It was no more than a squat, and Stone recalled the stench and noise from two aggressive black dogs that Xavier said he kept as pets.
He climbed the twenty-eight steps of an outside concrete stairway to a flat above a charity shop. He banged his fist on the door and then stood back, not knowing what to expect. A middle-aged woman, with short hair dyed a bright pink, gave a wide smile as she opened the door. She looked at Stone for a moment as if she should know him as she did most people who knocked on her door from around this place.
‘You know Xavier? Inmate in Belmarsh?’ Stone asked.
‘What’s that to do with me?’
‘He told me to call. Bring you something.’
Before Stone had finished, there was the sound of heavy feet in the hallway. The man Stone had seen before with the wispy beard and bloodshot eyes appeared.
‘Lynda, leave this to me,’ he said, pushing the woman back into the dark hallway. He faced up to Stone, standing squarely, staring at him. ‘You brought me something, Harry?’
‘Maybe. But you give me something first. Some important information Xavier said you’ve got for me.’
‘Don’t know anything about that. Xavier’s inside and I look after things ’til he comes out. Won’t be long now.’
‘Don’t try that on,’ Stone said and turned, carrying the bag of notes, to walk back down the stairway. He knew how this gang of violent criminals worked.
‘Give it to me; give me that bag – I want it.’
A large, wide-bladed knife was flashed in Stone’s face. He vaguely saw the woman’s pink hair as she yelled at the man.
‘Leave him, Ash. Can’t you see he’s an old man?’
In one quick movement, the bag was snatched from Stone’s hand, and he was pushed with force onto the narrow stairway landing. The door closed quickly behind him. Stone felt feeble; he could not resist, and he sat for a moment on the top stone stair to get his breath back. The door opened a fraction and Lynda peered at this aged visitor.
‘You alright, darling?’ she asked.
Stone put his head in his hands and slowly pulled himself to his feet.
‘Do you want a cuppa? Or something else?’
Stone ignored her and started to walk back down the stairs. A flashing knife close to his face, which in a few seconds would have torn his cheek wide open, was too close. Quick, wild thoughts of revenge ran through his head. A lit bottle of petrol through the front door. That would teach them not to play with him.
His rage was growing, but Stone’s energy wafted in the air. The last big-money deal, fed by the opium of secret insider information, was now dead. And with £25,000 snatched away, capturing Marine House would now mean turning the screw on the Jackson siblings and their stolen money. But before using that blackmail, he was going to let his lease run down; he wanted to feel the power of being a squatter.
He walked slowly two blocks from the high street until he came to a familiar space. There was a modern two-storey building standing out from the grey Victorian houses around it. It had been built in a spot where a German bomb had demolished eight terraced houses in 1942. The sign said, “Plaistow Children’s Hospice”. He stood and stared. £25,000 could have been well spent in that place; he would make that up to them.
Stone walked back to the station slowly. He knew he still had over £2 million in the bank; he could buy a village house close by and settle in for his final days. Comfortably, undisturbed. But that was never his plan – it was too easy, and nowhere was as grand as Marine House.
Of course, he had been naïve in trusting anything to do with this venomous gang of narcotic dealers and racketeers, with their own form of sadism. But he gloated as he remembered the blood spurting from Xavier’s nose and watching him slump to his knees on the prison floor.