CHAPTER TEN

 

 

"YOU'RE GABRIEL?"

The voice came from the open doorway. Gabe looked up to see the shadowed outline of a man filling the frame, a pair of bodyguards hovering over each shoulder. He walked into the living room, clasping a cup of tea in his hands, the light from the expansive picture window finally revealing his features: a grizzled, sinewy character, with a fuzzy white crew cut atop his head. Clad in a tan linen suit and a white shirt open at the neck, he moved unhurriedly to an armchair opposite the sofa upon which Gabe was nervously perched. The two guards had followed him through the door and closed it behind them, standing sentinel before the threshold.

"That's right. Pleased to meet you, Mr Flowers." The younger man instantly rose and proffered his hand. Flowers glanced down at it, turned slightly to place his cup and saucer on a small table beside the chair, and then shook it, his grip firm. He released Gabe and dropped back into his seat, motioning for his guest to do the same.

"Gabriel... It's a name you don't hear very often these days."

"My father is from Cork."

"Ah. You're of good Catholic stock, I take it?"

"Well, not really. He lapsed not long after meeting my mother, much to the disappointment of my grandparents. I think my name may have been some kind of appeasement."

Flowers nodded slowly, his piercing blue eyes studying Gabe. "And are you religious at all, Mr O'Connell?" he asked.

"Nah. I think I lost any semblance of faith the moment I hit puberty. Didn't see how a loving God could justify all that teenage angst. That, and the spots, obviously."

Flowers smiled. "You're an atheist then?"

"Technically, though that always sounds so final. Let's just say I'm hedging my bets." He swallowed, watching as the older man took a sip from his teacup. "And yourself?" he enquired, hoping it wasn't too personal a question to ask a potential employer.

"I went to church every Sunday with my wife, years ago," Flowers replied, casting his eyes downwards to regard the contents of his cup. "But after she died, it felt like a... charade. An empty gesture. A pointless display of supplication towards a higher authority that I no longer respected." He was silent for a moment. "But I've always been interested in the power that those houses of God wield; there's no denying that, whatever your belief, the strength of faith is invested in their walls. You can feel it as soon as you enter one." He drained the teacup and set it back on its saucer. "That's my principle interest, Mr O'Connell - power; its acquisition and the most effective way to exert it." Flowers gestured around him. "You like the house?"

Gabe nodded, though he had seen little of its interior beyond the entrance hall and this lounge into which he had been ushered. Rather, he was wondering how the conversation had taken such a bizarre turn so early. He had been warned that Harry Flowers could be a touch eccentric, and if he was honest he had found the prospect refreshing, a throwback to the characters he used to work with on the local newspaper. But what clearly separated them from the sixty-year-old seated across from him now was the sheer level of influence and purpose that Flowers exuded; this was no harmless old codger, prone to flights of fancy, but a sharp entrepreneur whose digressions had an agenda of their own. Anything he said, he said for a reason. He had gathered that much just from a few minutes in his company, and from reading between the lines of what he had been told about Flowers by the lieutenants that had brought Gabe to this point.

Three days earlier, his flatmate Tom had instructed him to come to the bar on a Friday night, when one of Flowers' crew was guaranteed to be dropping by. Upon arriving Gabe was directed towards a dimly lit corner table, where he stood before a rotund, besuited figure cradling a gin and tonic. The man gave him the once-over and asked - prior to introducing himself or indulging in any conversational niceties - why he wanted to work for Harry Flowers. For such a forthright question, Gabe was initially stumped. He had expected a degree of small talk ahead of the crux of their business, and the immediate answer that he was desperate for the money seemed unwise. Instead, he replied that his knowledge of the city would make him an asset to Mr Flowers' organisation, and that if Flowers was looking for a good driver, then no one handled London's roads better than he. The man considered this response, then said that Gabe had come recommended (a commendation he suspected Tom had a hand in), and that he had been assigned by Mr Flowers to size up such suitable candidates before the boss called them in for a chat. His demeanour warming, he invited Gabe to sit and drink with him, informing him that his name was Childs, and that he had worked for Flowers for over ten years.

The younger man listened with polite interest as Childs gave him a potted history of his employer's dealings - a successful import/export company at the age of thirty, a move into property just as the boom-time hit, and the establishment of his line of clubs and bars - that painted the picture of a self-made millionaire. The reverence with which Childs spoke Flowers' name suggested a loyalty that Gabe had never experienced himself. He'd struggled with authority in the past, disliked being part of a team; but clearly being part of Flowers' outfit was a way of life. When he mentioned the man's obvious fondness for his boss, he didn't appear embarrassed.

"Harry's straight down the line," he said, a zealot's gleam in his eye. "He won't hesitate to tell you what's on his mind, but you'll find his honesty and fairness refreshing. There's no bullshit, nothing underhand. If you do well, he lets you know; if you fuck up, he'll kick your arse. It can be a little strange at first, true - 'cause he always lets you know what he's thinking, he has a tendency to go off at a tangent, so you have to be on the ball to keep up with him. Other times, you just have to go with it. But his attitude has got him where he is today, and it's enabled him to gather together a workforce that's proud to be at his right hand."

Gabe came away impressed with the dedication that Flowers evidently instilled in his employees, and when he got the call twenty-four hours later that the boss-man wanted to see him at his Essex mansion, he wondered if some of Childs' enthusiasm had rubbed off; he hadn't even met Flowers and already he felt honoured to be summoned into his presence. A car had arrived this morning to transport him there, and throughout the journey he was regaled with tales of Harry's business acumen by the driver and his escort - one of Childs' assistants called Hendricks, a dog-loving giant, who yapped about his kennels incessantly - their allegiance equally strong. The more he heard about him, the more Flowers was taking on an almost legendary status, a mythic name spoken in hushed, devoted tones, whose vast reputation preceded him. Despite, or perhaps because of, Childs' allusion to his boss's unconventional thought processes - "You need three brains just to catch up with him" - Gabe was looking forward to finally greeting the man in the flesh. When they swung round in front of the huge house and parked in its shadow, he was struck suddenly with the realisation of just how rich and important this guy was.

Now, under Flowers' gaze, sunlight streaming through the window, the trees in the grounds beyond bowing as they were tussled by a growing breeze, he could sense the power that the man had spoken of moments before, and the impression that he released it like a vapour wherever he went, an aura of tough, uncompromising authority. No wonder it was his guiding obsession to attain more; he wanted to build upon what he had, and consolidate his air of absolute control.

"The house is beautiful," Gabe replied.

"It's my church," Flowers said flatly. "It's where I operate from. I have many properties situated around the city - indeed, around the country - but this is where I'm strongest. This is my home."

"This is where you do your business from?"

"Mainly. I've reached that degree of wealth that fortunately renders the workplace obsolete, and have enough staff that I can delegate the day-to-day toil to. But I still need to put in an appearance in my various operations, just to make sure things are running smoothly. I like to think I'm a hands-on kind of boss." Flowers smiled again, though Gabe noted it barely touched his eyes, which remained as uncomfortably focused on him as always. "Hence the need for a driver. My average day can consist of a fair amount of shuttling back and forth, and I need someone that can take me from A to B with calm assurance. London's roads can be... taxing."

Gabe nodded, the screen inside his mind replaying in startling close-up the moment he ricocheted off the bonnet of the Audi and slammed into the tarmac.

"You came with a glowing reference, Mr O'Connell," Flowers said, cocking his head to one side and studying his subject. "It could of course be just as easy for myself to use one of my existing employees as a chauffeur. But other tasks demand their attention most of the time; and it appeals to me to be driven by someone with a genuine love for the city. You worked as a courier previously, I understand?"

"Before my accident, yes."

"So you feel you know the capital?"

"Whatever face the city shows, I think I've seen it."

Flowers exchanged a glance with one the guards standing before the door, a sense of amusement creasing his lips. "The city has many secrets, that's true," he said, returning his gaze to his guest. "And should you work for me, you will be privy to some of them."

Gabe expected him to expound further, but a mobile phone started ringing. Flowers reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the device, answering it and listening intently. A minute or so later he clicked it shut and abruptly got to his feet, indicating their meeting was at an end. Gabe hastily stood, shaking his hand once more, though this time Flowers was the first to initiate the gesture. "My associates will be in touch."

"I've got my CV here, if you want it," Gabe replied quickly, patting the bag slung over his shoulder. "Or if there's any other documents you'd like to check—"

"That won't be necessary, Mr O'Connell. I've seen all I need to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to." He nodded a curt goodbye and turned to the door, the men opening it for him. He disappeared through without another word, the guards following, haunting his every move. They closed the door behind them.

Gabe stood in the suddenly hushed room, the sound of a ticking clock on the mantelpiece filling his ears, feeling strangely abandoned and listless, as if all the energy had suddenly been sucked from the air. He only snapped back into focus when Hendricks entered seconds later and told him he'd give him a lift back home.

 

 

HE GOT THE call from Childs a couple of days later to inform him that the job was his. He had expected to feel pleased, but his elation was oddly muted; he got the impression this decision had been made possibly even before Flowers had laid eyes upon him, that the old man had been toying with him slightly. His interview had been an attempt for the boss to see how Gabe handled himself face to face, and whether he could be intimidated easily. He assumed he had passed the test, though remained unsure why such a performance was required for such a straightforward role, and wondered if it boded well for his future relationship with his employer. Harry Flowers evidently liked to play games with power, as well as shop for it.

He pressed Tom for information on what he knew about the man, but his flatmate claimed ignorance, repeating his claims that he had had no dealings with him, and that even his superior - Gary, the bar manager - mostly spoke to just Flowers' underlings. Tom did admit that he had heavily championed Gabe for the job, partly because he felt it would be good for him to get back out on the roads, and partly because they were financially desperate. The money Flowers was offering, and the immediacy of the work, was not to be sniffed at. Gabe knew what he was implying: that after Tom's efforts to secure him this work, and with a substantial regular wage laid before him, he would be foolish - not to mention potentially homeless and friendless - if he didn't accept the offer. Once that was taken into consideration, he buried his reservations and spoke to Childs, telling him he would gladly fill the position.

However, he wasn't naive enough to believe that Flowers was entirely on the level, and his first few days working for the man confirmed it. Although his import companies and clubs were legitimate enough on the surface - or to a degree to keep the police from his door, at least - he was evidently not beyond stooping to intimidation to claw more of his precious power. Much of Gabe's initial work seemed to be driving Flowers and a cadre of his lieutenants to backwater businesses and wholesale outlets in the East End and waiting outside while they disappeared into the buildings for a couple of hours. Although he was instructed to stay within the car - a gleaming Jag that he was more than happy to get behind the wheel of - and therefore saw nothing of the transactions taking place inside, when his colleagues returned he occasionally caught glimpses of crimson spots on white cuffs, or a film of sweat on a few of the men's foreheads. He knew enough not to ask questions, and Flowers never revealed what had gone on, but was probably all too aware that Gabe had his suspicions.

Gabe knew that the moment the suggestion of criminal activity reared its head, the smart thing would be to get out of the outfit immediately. But the fact was that there was much about the job that he enjoyed, not least the frisson of excitement at being part of an enterprise that operated on the fringes of the law, a throwback to his wild youth. He grew to like the camaraderie between Flowers' employees, a closely knit group that watched out for one another, bonded by a disregard for conventional authority, and he appreciated the shared glory of being associated with the boss himself. Every time he piloted Flowers through the streets of London he could feel the instinctive respect that the man garnered from those around him. Perhaps there was a touch of fear there too - Flowers often remarked that nothing put people in their place quite like a fearsome reputation - but that seemed more attributed to the facade that Harry liked to project rather than any genuine malice on his part. Indeed, the greater the length of time Gabe spent in his employer's company, the more he realised he was becoming like Childs, Hendricks and the rest - drawn into Harry Flowers' inescapable orbit, he found the strength of personality there arresting. He was funny, clever and remarkably honest for one who spent much of his time concealing his dealings from those that would subject them to scrutiny. He had a temper on him, but the nuclear blast of his anger lasted only as long as the time it took for the person on the other end of his wrath to get the message before it was whipped out of sight again. He felt at times like a surrogate father, affectionately lording it over his unruly family, paternally responsible for his charges, and Gabe wondered if the absence of his own family, the loneliness of his convalescence as he recovered from his accident, brought this into even sharper relief. As long as he was part of Flowers' outfit, then someone would always have his back.

As the weeks elongated into months, Gabe became slowly but surely inured to the surreptitious side of the boss-man's custom, perhaps a little more easily than he expected. He was never asked to be involved, and Flowers clearly appreciated his unquestioning attitude. Even so, it wasn't as if this was the only sphere in which he conducted business. Indeed, there were relatively few of these clandestine meetings amongst the daily routine. Gabe would drive him to lunches with overseas manufacturers, distribution heads and other such mundane facets of his empire, and in the evenings there were appearances at charity parties and club openings, where he would rub shoulders with minor actors and musicians, many hankering for his patronage. He appeared extraordinarily well connected. When Gabe opened the Jag's rear door and Flowers emerged, he transformed from the shady operator into the popular philanthropist; and by extension Gabe got a taste of the glamour and fame, if only at a distance.

Such benefits were enough to make his position with Flowers a tenable one, but there was a further element that piqued his interest even more and ensured his renewed enthusiasm for the job. Every alternate Wednesday, Harry instructed Gabe to take him - strangely, always using one of the other pool cars rather than his regular Jag - to a flat in Vauxhall, into which he would disappear for almost exactly an hour. He always went alone, smelling strongly of aftershave, and entered and departed empty-handed. He would say next to nothing about the nature of these visits, and often the journey back from the apartment was a silent one, Flowers broodily glaring through one of the car's side windows. Gabe never attempted any enquiries, knowing from his boss's mood that such questioning would not go down well, but posited a theory in his head that the flat housed a mistress that Harry was courting, and had been for some time. He had not mentioned any women in his life since the death of his wife, but all the evidence - the scent, the spring with which he left the car, the gloom in which he returned - pointed to a doomed affair of some sort.

After driving Flowers to several of these assignations, the mystery nagged at Gabe; probably more than it should. What business was it of his if Harry got his bi-weekly jollies with some old flame? The routine despondency with which he returned to the car suggested the relationship had been dragging on over a fairly lengthy period, and the driver imagined the unseen lover as being of a similar age to Flowers; a wrinkly gangster's moll kept in affluent seclusion. It really was nothing to do with him and not worth musing on, he reminded himself, and he wouldn't have thought anymore of it if he had not seen the face at the window.

Gabe didn't know why he looked up when he did; usually he was still sitting behind the wheel when Flowers reappeared, but on that bright Wednesday he was leaning against the bonnet of the parked car, enjoying the warmth of the sun's rays. He heard the front door slam and saw his boss heading towards him across the forecourt; stepping back to duck into the vehicle, his eyes flickered momentarily upwards at the building's frontage and he caught sight of the young woman gazing down at him. He knew instantly that this was the subject of Harry's visits. Even from that distance, he could see a resemblance in the narrowness of her cheeks and the dazzling blue eyes. It was not a bed-partner he was spending time with - it was a relation, and, in all probability, his daughter. They locked stares for long seconds before she vanished behind the curtains, and Gabe was left with an indescribable ache at her absence. He snapped from his reverie when he realised that Harry had almost reached him, and tried to put her from his mind for the journey back to the mansion. He made no mention to his employer at having seen the woman, and Flowers - being typically morose - did not indulge in conversation.

But Gabe found it difficult to erase the face from his memory; there was something so sad and heartbreaking about the cast of her features that he kept returning to it. He studied it from what he could recollect - the long blonde hair hanging to her shoulders, the pale white skin, the small teeth visible behind the purse of her lips - and tried to analyse why this woman looked so caged and lonely. For all he knew, she could be married with half a dozen rugrats under her belt; but her demeanour suggested otherwise. She appeared afraid, and her father's trips to see her - for Flowers had to be her parent, there was no question of that, the more he compared the two - did nothing to assuage that fear; indeed, it possibly even heightened it.

Gabe looked forward to each trip to south London and a chanced glimpse of the mystery woman, and though he never saw her as clearly on subsequent visits he could always discern her outline hovering at the curtains' edge, like a spirit trapped behind glass. Flowers appeared not to notice Gabe's eyes constantly drifting to the same window, but that was hardly surprising; he was becoming increasingly distracted. Gossip amongst the men suggested that an old rival of Harry's had started moving in on their territory - Goran Vassily, a kingpin from eastern Europe, who had carved out a chunk of property north of the Thames, and with whom Flowers had a volatile relationship. Vassily was making challenges to Harry's power base: customers were being stolen, profits slashed, insults traded. Flowers was said to be livid, and he spent more and more time at the mansion, issuing directives to combat this threat. As a result, the journeys to Vauxhall dried up, and Gabe was left haunted by her image.

He had considered asking some of the others in Harry's employ whether they knew anything about her, but discarded the idea, worried that word might get back to the old man, who would no doubt take a very dim view of his chauffeur poking his nose in other people's personal matters. He wasn't sure who he could trust amongst the ranks; who would keep their mouths shut and who would find his casual curiosity suspicious.

Suddenly, Gabe made an unconscious decision before the rational side of him could oppose it: he would go see her without Flowers' knowledge. It was a risky strategy, and one that seemed to fly in the face of common sense, but he didn't think he'd be able to put that face from his mind until he'd made an attempt to help her. He recognised a vulnerability that he himself had struggled to overcome following his accident, and saw in those pained features a desire to escape the claustrophobic confines of her dwelling, if only she wasn't so scared of what lay beyond. As someone who had suffered similar circumstances, Gabe felt he was in a useful position to give her whatever aid she required. To minimise the amount of deceit required, he chose a day when he needed to take the Jag in for a service, and could legitimately escape Harry's gaze, though in truth the boss was so preoccupied with this enemy organisation muscling in on his operations that Gabe doubted he would be even missed. Every morning seemed to bring with it some fresh tale of disrespect and a growing sense of events escalating: a small fire in a club bathroom; shots fired outside several bars; an increased police presence acting on anonymous tip-offs.

He drove over to the apartment block not knowing what he was going to say, and stood before the list of residents next to the exterior door, his mind still blank. There was only one woman's name marked, and that read Anna Randolph, Flat 4. His hand, acting independently, reached out and pressed the button adjacent to it.

A reply came seconds later out of the speaker. "Yes?"

"Ms Randolph?" Gabe exhaled and took a leap of faith. "I work for your father. Mr Flowers."

The silence stretched interminably. Finally: "And?"

"And he hasn't been able to make it for a few weeks, so I... I came in his stead. To see how you were."

More silence. "Who are you?"

"My name's Gabriel O'Connell. As I said, I work for Harry."

"Look up for a moment."

"Huh?"

"Just look up."

He did as he was told, seeing instantly the CCTV camera positioned just under the roof of the porch. He looked straight into its flat black eye.

"You're the driver, aren't you?" came a crackly voice from the intercom. "The one who brings him."

"That's right."

"And he doesn't know you're here, does he?"

"Well, I..." Gabe stuttered. "I thought..."

"Push the door." A buzzer sounded and the lock snapped free. Gabe paused for a moment, cast a glance behind him, then entered, jogging up the short flight of stairs to the first landing. Number four was opposite the stairwell. He rapped on its door, which was opened by the woman from the window. She was shorter than he imagined, in her early twenties, and wore a black vest top and grey sweatpants. She beckoned for him to enter, and ushered him into the living room, a chaotic sprawl of discarded clothes, magazines, CDs, books and unwashed mugs.

"Sorry to disturb you like this," he began.

"If Harry knew you were here," she answered, sitting on a sofa arm, one leg folded under the other, "he'd have you strung up. I'm presuming you know the risk you're taking?"

"To be honest, I'm not sure myself what I'm doing here. Why'd you let me in?"

"I'd see you looking up at my window when you'd come to collect Dad. You have a trustworthy face, I guess. Somehow I wasn't entirely surprised you turned up at my door."

He nodded slightly. "I wanted to talk to you. You seemed lonely and... I don't know, a bit trapped, I suppose." He ran a hand through his hair. "I don't make a habit of this, I have to say. Turning up at stranger's doors for a chat, I mean."

"You must have been sure, though. As I said, Harry will feed you your balls if he finds out you've been here."

"I know. It felt like something I had to get out of my system. If I didn't... I would've been haunted by what I didn't do because I didn't have the nerve." She was studying him, clearly a family trait. "Why does he keep you here?"

"For my protection. Dad's made a fair few enemies over the years, so he thought it better I didn't stay at the mansion. Hence me taking on mother's maiden name too. But it suits me, being as far away from him as I can. If he would let me, I'd escape to the other side of world."

"I got the impression that the two of you don't have a happy relationship."

"My father's an animal, and the fact that he acts the popular businessman somehow makes it even worse. If he was a simple thug that didn't know any better, I might have some semblance of respect for him; but he's very exacting in how he inflicts pain. If something stands in the way of getting what he wants then he won't hesitate to destroy it."

The vehemence of her words took him aback. She must've noticed his shock because her tone softened. "Look, clear some of that stuff off the chair and sit down. You look like you're waiting for a bus."

Gabe picked up a stack of unironed T-shirts and placed them on the carpet. Seating himself, he took in his surroundings: there was clutter everywhere, spilling from cupboards and off shelves, though there was a comforting homeliness to it. There was no sense of ostentation. The furniture was evidently several decades old, and an extensive album collection was lying in piles around a tatty stereo player held together by duct tape. It didn't look like she had much use for her father's wealth. He noticed there were no photographs of Flowers perched amongst the bric-a-brac, only a woman he took to be Anna's mother; the two of them were smiling out of many of the picture frames.

"Is that why you didn't tell me to get lost?" he asked. "Because having me here would upset him?"

"Partly," she conceded. "I do like making things as difficult for him as I can. He deserves it."

"What on earth do the two of you talk about when he comes to visit?"

"Not a lot. It's mostly just him apologising, and asking for forgiveness. Me, I'm just counting the hours till he goes."

"Forgiveness? For what?"

She sighed. "Long story."

"That's kind of why I'm here," he said, smiling. "Anything you want to get off your chest, I'm willing to listen."

She paused as she picked at a nail. "Suffice to say, I used to see this guy that was friends with the wrong crowd. Dad made sure he left town and didn't come back."

"More enemies?"

She nodded. "Of a sort." She looked up at him, the same piercing blue eyes as her father boring into him. "Do you want a cup of tea?"

He smiled and replied that he would, and when she returned with two steaming mugs they chatted comfortably about their pasts. Gabe told her about soldiering overseas and the scenes he witnessed there, and the accident and the terror he'd experienced at leaving the safety of his home. Anna sympathised, telling him that Flowers had instilled in her at an early age a dread of straying from his side, informing her that there were all manner of bad people who could do her harm. She realised in her late teens, after he'd hounded her mother to death, that he was the one she needed to be afraid of. But even so, he wouldn't let her go, refusing to keep her at anything more than arm's length.

Gabe felt an assurance with Anna that put him at his ease, bonded by their similar experiences of living with fear, and though he was conscious of the time that was slipping away as he sat inside this Vauxhall flat watching the shapes her mouth made as she spoke, it was good to be in her company. With each anecdote, she was clearly relishing a chance to relate to someone, having broken free of Flowers' control. She told him about bands that she liked, playing song after song, scattering CDs in an arc around her as she searched through her collection, and reeled off novels that he should be reading. It was like he had suddenly tapped into the reservoir of her interests, and it came bubbling to the surface.

"You got any kids?" she asked him after he'd told her a little about his own family.

"No, none. I've never been in a steady enough relationship."

"I had one once, with the guy from the wrong crowd. A baby boy. Dad insisted I give him up for adoption, said I wasn't in a fit state to cope." She was studying an album sleeve, running her eyes over it sadly.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"Post-natal depression." She looked over at him. "I'd like to see him again, though, one day. He'd be a proper little lad by now."

Eventually, he told her he had to go, but would like to return, if that was OK with her. She told him it was, as long as he was careful. He should never underestimate Harry, she said. Gabe promised he would take every precaution, and true to his word he came back a week later, and then another seven days after that, and then twice more the following month.

Unaware that on each occasion he was being closely watched.

 

 

THE FIRST INKLING that something was wrong came when his mobile rang at 3.30 in the morning. At first he was content to let it run to voicemail, but it didn't stop; somebody was calling his number repeatedly. Rousing himself from sleep, Gabe sleepily glanced at the display and saw Flowers' name. A chill ran down his spine, and all notion of fatigue left him instantly. He answered it warily.

There was no greeting. "They've got her," Harry whispered, hard and precise, the anger vibrant within each word. "They've got her because of you."