Chapter 47

OLD TIMES SAKE

“Why the fuck are you calling me?” said Allan Graveney.

“Old time’s sake,” said Don Wilks. He switched the wipers on. The rain fell heavily now. He was parked outside the community center. He’d eaten a sandwich and drunk some tea. He wanted to be on his own, away from the commotion of the incident room.

Graveney said, “That’s not a good reason. So what’s this about?”

“You think it’s about anything, Allan?”

“It’s always about something.”

“We’ve got a mess here.”

“These murders?”

“These murders.”

Graveney grunted. “You think it’s anything to do with me, you’re wrong.”

“I don’t think that, pal. You heard anything?”

“I don’t hear anything about Barrowmore these days, Wilks. I’m well away from that shit-hole. Bad memories.”

Wilks paused before saying, “I never offered you my condolences for the loss of your brother.”

“I never expected you to.”

“I should’ve sent flowers or something. He was my snitch. He was my boy.”

Wilks could sense Graveney bristling on the other end of the line. To describe someone like Tony Graveney as “my boy” was disrespectful. And disrespectful got you killed in Graveney country. It got you killed if you weren’t Don Wilks.

Before his death on July 26, 1996, Tony Graveney and his brother were in a cold war with Roy Hanbury for possession of the streets.

Tony was found bludgeoned to death on waste ground. His face was pulped. His skull shattered. No arrests were made, mainly because the prime suspect did a runner a few hours after the body was found.

But that prime suspect was back.

Sounding tired of their brief conversation, Allan Graveney said, “If you’re only ringing up for a chat, I could do without it. I’m legit these days, you know. I got a few arcades going and run a cab firm.”

“That’s what you were doing thirty years ago, Allan.”

Graveney sighed. “Yeah, but I’m as white as a virgins knickers these days, I’m telling you. I don’t need Old Bill phoning me or coming round—it’s bad for business.”

“You won’t hear from me again, Allan. Ever. Whether you’re straight or bent, whatever you do, you’ll never hear from me or any other filth. You hear me?”

“Yeah . . . yeah, I heard you. What’s going on?”

“I just got some news for you, that’s all. Just thought you’d be interested.”

Wilks told him.

 

Job done, thought Wilks, putting his phone away. He poured another coffee laced with scotch from his flask.

He watched uniformed officers talking to residents. Door-to-door continued. It would continue till every flat, every house had been ticked off the list. They were already having to make a third or fourth visit to some properties because no one had been home earlier.

They probably were at home, thought Wilks, and just couldn’t be bothered answering the door to cops.

It was true they were getting a mixed response. But that wasn’t surprising. Everyone wanted the killer caught, but they weren’t sure if they wanted the cops to do the catching.

And talking to the Old Bill was a no-no in places like this.

Wilks’s eyes scanned the parking ground.

Scum everywhere, he thought.

It was time he took control.

It was time real fear came back to haunt Barrowmore.

It was time the law grabbed this place by the balls and crushed the life out of it.