VIOLENCE IN THE BLOOD

CRIME SYNDICATE BOOK 1

Mark J NEWMAN

MARK J NEWMAN BOOKS

Copyright © 2016 by Mark J. Newman

All rights reserved.

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Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Contents

EXCLUSIVE VIP CLUB INVITATION

CHARACTERS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

VIP CLUB & FREE BOOKS

About the Author

Also by Mark J Newman

IN FOR THE KILL

WALK AMONGST THE DEAD

A CALL TO VENGEANCE

PAID IN FULL

FINAL NOTE FROM MARK J NEWMAN

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CHARACTERS

- Malkie Thompson - Recently released from prison. Now working for Glasgow crime boss, McAlister. Problem is Malkie’s got ambitions to go it alone.

- Frank Mayer - Malkie’s right hand man, an original member from the Glasgow street gang

- George Patterson - Recruited by Frank Mayer, impressed by his appetite for violence, joined the street gang.

- Billly Kane - Malkie Thompson’s nearest thing to a best pal, been around since their school days. Willing to do whatever it takes for Malkie and the organisation.

- Agnes Thompson - Mother of Malkie Thompson

- Violet Thompson - Agnes’s younger sister and aunt to Malkie Thompson

- McAlister - Glasgow’s Mr Big of the criminal fraternity. A man not to be crossed.

- Johnston - Personal driver for McAlister

- Rob Masters & Cory Finnegan - Enforcers for McAlister’s firm

- The Macbride brothers - Associates of Glasgow underworld kingpin McAlister

- John Blake & Kieran Williams - Former British Army soldiers. Now ex-pat freelance contractors, based on the Portuguese Algarve. Operate on word of mouth recommendations. Specialists in armed raids throughout the UK and Europe.

- Rachel Proctor - Young, and strapped for cash single mother, willing to provide information in exchange for money.

- Michael Phillips - Royal Mint Processing Plant Supervisor

- Baxter - McAlister’s south of the border connection, known as the Sassenach to the Scots. A former police officer, operating as a freelance cleaner for the criminal fraternity.

- Vinnie Edwards - Midlands based crime boss. Specialises in extortion.

- DI Chas Morrison - Serving detective in West Midlands Police. A corrupt cop, in the pocket of Vinnie Edwards. Passes on sensitive information in return for cash payments. Plans to disappear to Costa Del Sol once he has enough money to fund his lifestyle.

- ‘Tanya’ - Mistress of Vinnie Edwards.

- ‘Box Cutter Boys’ - Members of Vinnie’s crew, muscle he uses for extortion and keeping a check on his business interests.

- Charlie Green - Proprietor of Breaks Snooker Club

- Laura Edwards - Vinnie’s wife

- Lila Edwards - Vinnie’s daughter

- Callaghan - Crime lord of the North East, based in Newcastle, rumoured to have Irish Republican connections back in the old country.

Prologue

Glasgow 1976

Agnes Thompson waits for the knock at the door. Inevitable, same way she feels the dread in the pit of her stomach. Nothing she can do about it. Resigned to it - this her lot. She’s accepted it for what it is. Normality. The way it’s been since her worthless husband decided upon a disappearing act four months ago.

She looks out from her third story tenement rain battered window, the street below a kaleidoscopic blur. This is the place she calls home, nothing more than a one bedroomed shithole. Rising damp leaving its mark - inky black staccato stains forming a trail along the skirting, finding sanctuary in cold dark corners.

Life was never easy when her husband was around, but this new reality, this is something else.

Agnes takes a long hard drag on her cigarette and holds it deep in her lungs. If the damp doesn’t get her first, she’s damned sure the woodbines will do the trick. Part of her welcomes it, anything’s better than this. This eternal misery she calls life.

That’s when the guilt slaps her full on in the face, harder than anything the old man could ever muster. What about Malkie, what will he do when she’s not around?

A vision of her sister, Violet, comes into play. Pretty little thing. Long, black ebony hair and big brown eyes that men seem to melt into. She’s not what you might call the maternal type. Agnes’s younger sister has a liking for the drink and men. In Violet’s case, where there’s one, the other seems to follow. A surrogate mother in the making? Agnes doubts it.

Three loud successive wraps on the door bring Agnes back from her melancholic daydreaming. She stubs out her cigarette and adjusts her holdups. The special black ones, with the lace spiral pattern at the top. That’s what he likes. Last time he called, he made a point of getting her to put them on in front of him.

‘Next time,’ he said, ‘be wearing them.’

Agnes takes a sharp intake of breath. She buoys herself up for the next installment. Looks at herself in the faux art deco mirror, a framework of trapezoid and triangular shapes. She adjusts her hair, then licks her lips. That time already. Not that she needs to check. She can set her watch by him. Or at least she could, until she pawned it. Little good it did - bought some time. Made a small contribution and put a dent in the back payments.

Agnes walks to the door, she pauses one last time. Closes her eyes and tries to block out the reality. May God forgive me.

She opens it, her best fake smile plastered across her face.

He’s standing, leaning against the doorjamb. Half-smoked cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth. Agnes, ten years his senior but still a good-looking woman. The man facing her, the tenement landlord - McAlister. He’s come to collect. Some say he’s one to watch. A man in the ascendency. The name of McAlister - one of growing reputation. Feared and respected in equal measure. Rumours emanate around Glasgow. McAlister’s not a man you cross. Agnes needs to tread careful, she’s got to keep him on-side. Play the game, for little Malkie’s sake as much as her own.

Truth is, he’s not so little these days. Growing up fast. Spends more time outside the house than in. Christ knows what he’s up to. She’ll take it as a blessing. Agnes doesn’t want him around when McAlister comes calling.

The arrangement, as McAlister likes to call it, it’s way past the honeymoon period. Gone are the days of small talk and chit-chat. Working off the payments is nothing more than business - the sex, sterile and functional. Devoid of emotion.

‘You look good Agnes,’ he says, as a way of greeting, grabbing her by the hips, pulling her to him. Close and intimate, she can feel his urgency pressing up against her.

No escape. His breath, a mixture of tobacco and drink. Agnes tries to wriggle from his grip, but he holds her tight. His hand reaching round the back of her head, he pulls her face to his, then forces his tongue inside her mouth. She wants to gag but needs to play along - at least for now.

‘Been thinking about you all morning, Agnes. What I’m gonna do...’

She frees herself, then ushers him inside, away from prying eyes. Agnes closes the door to the outside world. She might be whoring herself to keep a roof overhead, but she’s still got her dignity, and no way is she putting on a show for the neighbours.

‘You wearing them?’ he says.

Agnes nods her head.

‘Show me.’

Agnes hoicks up her maroon pleated skirt, three inches beyond the knee. Just enough to offer a taste. She watches as McAlister licks his lips. His stare never leaving her thigh. She takes the material a little higher, enjoying the power of the moment. It’s a small win, but she’ll take what she can get.

‘Stop.’

Agnes frowns, she says nothing. Time to play along.

‘Take it slow,’ says McAlister.

She complies. ‘Like this,’ she whispers, watching as he battles his desire. Agnes teases the dress a centimetre at a time, her stare fixed on the strange expression upon McAlister’s face.

He reaches out to stroke her leg. Agnes bats his hand away - watching as his pupils dilate. His black serpent like eyes lock on to hers. Foreplay done with, he grabs her by the arm and shoves her towards the bedroom.

Malkie brings his leg back, then swings it forward, his foot connects with the crushed can. The force of the kick hoofs the decimated piece of tin forward. His eye follows the trajectory, watching its descent as it lands thirty feet further down the road. He charges forward. Teeth bared, it’s his for the taking. Nothing’s going to stand in his way. He shoulder barges his opponent, adding a jab to the gut as the taller, gangly youth stumbles off to the side.

Malkie shoots for goal, then fist pumps the cold grey sky, watching as the can crosses the line.

‘Fucking beauty.’

His face beaming, he turns to his friend. ‘Come on Frankie, we’re out of here. Let’s go see what your maw’s cooking up on the stove, eh?’

‘You’re a cheeky bastard, Thompson, and sure enough she’ll be glad to see you. Fuck knows why.’

‘It’s how it is, Frankie. I’m like the prodigal son,’ says Malkie, taking a mock bow.

‘Aye, you wish.’

‘Come on, let’s get back to mine. Something I want to pick up on the way.’

‘What’s that?’ says Frankie.

‘Nowt to worry about. Little surprise. Something to keep the chill from your bones.’

Malkie and Frank make their way down the road, back towards the house. The two of them talking shit about their exploits and dreaming about the day they’ll carve a slice of the city - one to call their own.

‘... Frankie, that’s why you’re my right hand. You and me together, pal. Telling you now, this city won’t…’

Malkie stops dead centre of the road, his words tail off then evaporate. Frank continues two paces before realising he’s flying solo. He turns. ‘What’s up, you shat yourself or something?’

Malkie says nothing. He’s standing - mute, staring off into the middle distance.

Frank spins on his heel, his eye darting from one side of the road to the other. A cluster of cars, made of a white Mark 1 Ford Escort and a shitty brown Morris Marina with a vinyl roof, sit idle at the kerbside. Beyond that his eye settles on the olive green Hillman Minx, its glory days long gone, the wing and sills conceding to rust. He squints, recognition follows. His eyes focus on the object that’s got Malkie spooked. To the untrained eye it’s a thing of beauty - sky-blue paint job, V8 3 litre engine, the Triumph Stag. For Malkie, it’s a gut punch of a reminder.

‘Guess you’re not coming to mine after-all.’

‘No. You get yourself on home, Frankie. I’ll wait here a while. Check everything’s okay.’

Frank turns to face Malkie’s third floor tenement window. ‘Want me to stay. You just say the word, it’s no bother.’

‘No. It’s fine. On you go. I got this, Frankie.’

He nods agreement, knowing better than to press Malkie. He’s seen that look before. ‘Aye. Okay. No bother. Catch you tomorrow.’

Malkie watches Frank disappear from view, then turns his head towards the third-floor window. He takes a pre-rolled cigarette from behind his ear and lights up. The smoke wafting up, stinging at his eyes, but he won’t avert his stare. Something compels him to keep watching. His mother, god bless her, thinks she’s shielded him from the truth - but Malkie knows the extent to which she’d go to keep them both off the streets.

One day mother, I’ll make this right. I promise you that.

Ian McAlister - slum landlord and rising star of the Glasgow underworld. Rumoured to be making in-roads to the top flight. Feared and respected by all those in the know. To Malkie, all he sees is a man, one that hides behind a flash suit and a sports car. Nothing but fakery and sleight of hand.

Malkie takes out his knife and presses the chrome stud button. A smile broadening on his face as the five-inch blade projects from inside the black and chrome edged handle. He turns it around, holding it up towards the sunlight streaking out from behind greyed alabaster clouds. He takes his time admiring the design of its lethal beauty.

He raises his eyes back towards the window, then plunges the tip into his palm. He drags the cold steel in a downward motion, opening up a two-and-a-half inch gash. There’s comfort in its effect as the warm sticky claret pools around the edges of the blade.

Memories of his last street brawl flood into vision. The boy was older, almost a man. Never thought the small kid would strike out at him like that. He had it coming. Malkie gave him a chance, told him to back off. The lanky streak of piss laughed in his face. Malkie knew then he’d carve him a smile - something permanent. A reminder he’d carry forward in life. Every time he looked in the mirror, he’d remember never underestimate the underdog.

It’s close to four months since his father went AWOL. Not that that was a problem. Thompson senior went unmissed. He spent most of his time staring into the bottom of an empty pint glass. What little money he made, he pissed up against the wall.

When he made it home, that’s when the real trouble started. His favourite pastime, to knock seven bells out of Malkie’s mother. When he’d done with her, he’d start on Malkie. Whatever fate had befallen Thompson senior, Malkie hoped it was something permanent.

Malkie crossed to the kerbside. He made a point of walking round the car. Slow and deliberate, taking his time to admire its design.

He could feel the eyes on him, hidden behind rags that passed for makeshift curtains. Seemed foolish to him - to leave such a fine-looking vehicle unattended. Such was McAlister’s ego. Confident that he could park anywhere he wanted, without the need for a minder and the arrogance to forgo the paying of tax to a local to watch over the car.

Malkie tapped the five-inch blade on the door panel, half an inch below the chrome strip. He applied a little more pressure, then walked, dragging the tip of the knife across the paintwork - enough to leave the faintest of scratches. He continued until he’d walked the perimeter of the Triumph Stag twice over.

Satisfied. He admired his handiwork, then retracted the blade and stuck it in his back pocket. He walked the five paces to the tenement door, opened it, then made his way inside, up three flights of stairs to the place he called home.

At the top of the stairs, Malkie took a moment to right himself. The last place he wanted to be right now was here. He opened the door. Stood there - looking in. His legs unable to move, his feet welded to the spot. He balled his fists and listened. The room - devoid of sound or movement. The bedroom door off to the right - ajar. He crept along, careful to dodge the two floorboards under the rug. The ones the old man had pulled up, a hidey hole to stash his drink money. Neither Malkie nor his mother - supposed to know it was there. His father’s secret, along with the rolled up porno mag he kept hidden down there.

Malkie found it the morning after the night before. He’d watched as the old man stumbled in. Part of the usual routine. A little before midnight, enough time for him to sit and brood after closing time, before making his way home. Malkie pretended to be asleep on his mattress, huddled up in the far corner. Experience had taught him it was safer that way. His father entered, mumbling an incoherent rant - arguing with the voices inside his own head, something about Teddy’s wake. Then he’d stuffed the notes and coins down into the hole, replaced the boards and rug, before collapsing on the floor. It was Agnes who’d come to his aid, pulled him to his feet, then dragged him to the marital bed. Seemed his mother had a talent for attracting a certain man. The type who got a kick out of keeping the little woman in her place. At least with the old man, the booze dampened his fire - for the most part. On occasion it morphed into something angrier, more deep-rooted, an unprecedented violence.

Malkie tip-toed midway across the room when McAlister stepped out from the bedroom, tucking in his shirttails. Malkie looked past him, could see his mother lying in the bed, her face turned to the wall.

‘What you doing skulking around out here, son?’

Malkie said nothing - returning the strangers glare.

‘You know who I am?’ said McAlister, moving further into the room, making his way to the mirror to comb his dark ruffled hair back into position.

Malkie watched the reflection as the Brylcreem held the guy’s receding hairline in place. ‘I’ve seen you around.’

McAlister laughed, keeping his eye on the reflection in the mirror. ‘You’re not scared are you, kid? I like that. You got balls. Plenty twice your age wouldn’t stare at me the way you are right now.’

Malkie continued to stare. Movement from the bedroom forcing his eyes to avert for a split second, before returning to McAlister.

‘She’s okay, needs to rest awhile, that’s all.’ McAlister stepped away from the mirror, the hint of a smirk on his face as he reached for his jacket. ‘Here,’ he said, taking his wallet from the inside pocket, ‘Treat yourself - it’s on me.’ He held out his hand, a single pound note protruding from his fist.

Malkie looked at the money, then back to McAlister.

‘What, you don’t want it, too proud to take my money? Fine, have it your way.’

McAlister stuffed the note back inside his wallet, then disappeared into the bedroom. He made his way round to the window, to the dresser and placed a crisp unused five pound note on the surface. He moved to Agnes, kissed the top of her head, ‘Buy yourself something nice. Want you to look good and make sure it’s something I’ll like.’

He made a point of locking eyes with Malkie before speaking again. ‘Same time next week, hen.’ The intonation in his voice, for Malkie’s benefit, a statement of intent rather than a question.

He exited the room and came to a halt two paces from Malkie. ‘You don’t like me much, do you?’

Malkie said nothing.

‘I can understand that. You’re looking out for her. Nothing wrong with that. You only get one maw, right? But don’t worry. We’re friends. We like each other’s company. That’s it. That’s all you need to know.’

Malkie stood rooted to the spot, his fists pumped tight like two hammers battling the adrenalin coursing through his veins. All he wanted to do was lunge for McAlister’s throat, knock him to the floor, then squeeze the last breath from him.

‘Thought you were Landlord, or something?’ said Malkie, keeping his temper in check.

McAlister grinned. ‘You’re a smart kid. How Old Are You?’

‘Fourteen next month.’

‘Kind of small for a fourteen-year-old,’ McAlister paused, assessing the sullen face standing in front of him. ‘Yeah, you got an attitude all right. Way you hold yourself and that scowl. Fuck me. You practise that in a mirror? You a tough guy, Malkie?’

‘I practise nothing.’

‘Don’t get all moody on me. I’m just pulling your pisser. But a word of advice, son. Don’t be staring at people like that, unless you’re ready to back it up.’

‘You’ve no need to worry about me, Mr McAlister. I do what’s needed, when it’s needed.’

McAlister chuckled to himself, ‘we all best watch out then, eh?’

Malkie balled his fists tighter, then dipped his chin.

McAlister clocked the body language. ‘You like to fight, Malkie?’

‘Depends.’

McAlister nodded his head. ‘I’ll let you in to a secret. Someone like me, it’s very rare I’d have to raise my hand these days. I have people do that for me. So tell me, why is that?’

Malkie shrugged his response but kept his eyes on McAlister’s.

‘I’ll tell you. Power. Control. Respect. Take note, young Thompson, because it’s these three factors that keep me on top - ahead of my rivals.’

Agnes entered the room, pulling her robe tight around her waist. ‘What’s going on?’ she said, her eye darting from McAlister to Malkie and back.

‘Nothing to worry about, Agnes. Me and the boy here, having a wee chat. Bright lad - you’ve got there.’

‘Malkie, go wait downstairs,’ said Agnes.

‘He’s fine where he is,’ said McAlister, not taking his eyes from Malkie. ‘We’re finishing up anyhow.’

McAlister held out his hand and summoned Agnes to him. She trundled three brief steps towards him, reluctant as to his intention. Managed a nervous glance to Malkie and back, fixing her stare on McAlister.

Malkie readied himself, light on his feet, his hand reaching round to his back pocket.

McAlister took out his wallet and held out two notes.

‘That’s unnecessary,’ said Agnes.

‘It’s for the boy, Agnes. Get him kitted out.’

‘It’s very kind, but…’

‘I insist.’

Agnes hesitated.

McAlister narrowed his eye. ‘It’s not like you don’t need it.’

‘I’ll take it,’ said Malkie, one hand on the blade in his back pocket, the other reaching out towards McAlister.

‘Fair enough,’ said McAlister, a smile breaking out over his face. ‘You ever box, Malkie?’

‘Now and then, when the mood takes me.’

‘You should. Boxing teaches discipline, fitness, speed and agility. Once you’ve got that mastered - let’s just say you can add a few adjustments to your repertoire as and when you need.’

Malkie frowned, trying to stay on track with the conversation.

‘You follow?’

‘Aye,’ said Malkie.

‘Good. This is what I want you to do,’ said McAlister, putting the money in Malkie’s hand, taking out a card from his wallet and writing on the back. ‘You familiar with Ramsay’s, the gym?’

‘Think so.’

‘Cal Ramsay’s a friend of mine. We go back a long way. Go see him, show him this card and tell him I sent you. If he needs to - he can call me. Number’s on the back.’

McAlister held out the card towards Malkie. ‘Here, take it.’

Malkie grabbed the card.

McAlister took hold of his wrist, eyeballed him, smiled, then let go.

‘You’ve got potential wee man. Need some guidance, that’s all. Ramsay will put you through your paces - right enough. If he thinks you got something he’ll put the time in - train you up. You might even make something of yourself. That’s what you want, right? To get you and your maw out of this shithole?’

Malkie said nothing, his cold eye burning into McAlister’s.

McAlister made for the door, then turned. ‘It’s your choice but do yourself a favour, take that pal of yours, the big guy - the one you’re always knocking about with.’

‘You mean Frankie?’

‘Aye, that’s him. He’s got the look and stature of a young Jackie Mayer. He any relation, I wonder?’

Malkie knew the truth of it but shrugged a response. Frankie came from a long line of bare knuckle boxers, going back four generations or more. No way was he sharing that kind of information with the likes of McAlister.

McAlister smirked from the side of his mouth as he lit a cigarette. ‘Okay, have it your way. Makes no difference to me, even if your pal is his double, but remember this - if he throws a punch half as good as old man Mayer, you two might have a…’ McAlister stopped mid flow. ‘Ah, no bother, what do I care?’

Malkie woke at his usual time of 6:15. He rolled the mattress and stuffed the bedding into the battered old wooden chest, sitting next to the window. The day was still to break, nothing but a hint of indigo and magenta slashed across the sky. He liked this hour, the house quiet, the neighbours sleeping. It gave him time to think. Soon his mother would wake, and with it her pensive mood and bad temper. Made all the worse by her night out with Violet.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t woken in the night. Strange, he noted, as he pushed the thought to the back of his mind - usually he’d hear her voice singing in the stairwell, crucifying the hell out of a Bay City Rollers track, once the mix of ale and whisky took effect. Not that he minded, Agnes was a happy drunk. It was the day after she was hell to live with. Not a scratch on the old man, though. For that they could be thankful. He was plain evil from the start, nothing but a sadistic sack of shit. Truth is, they were both well shot of him and happier for it.

Malkie crept along the floorboards, careful not to wake his mother. He slunk out of the door and down the corridor. Down the three flights of concrete stairs, then out into the yard. The rain started before he made it out of the external battered wooden door. By the time he broke mid sprint across the cobbles, it had soaked him to the skin. He took some comfort knowing he’d be first in line to use the communal WC and on a rare occasion such as this, could take his time about it.

If McAlister was true to his word, soon enough they’d get rehoused.

Easterhouse - if Agnes got her way. Frankie had gotten the nod his family were moving at the end of the week. Not that they had a choice in the matter. The wrecking ball had been on site for over a month, ready for the go. As soon as the last diehard tenants packed up their shit, the demolition team had instructions to raise the half mile area to the ground.

Like any other place, Easterhouse had its share of problems. Malkie had listened as his older cousins regaled colourful accounts of their exploits running with the gangs. Bloody retellings of hand to hand combat, where hatchets and blades came into play. Skirmishes, his kin claimed to have won. Not that he had cause to doubt them, their faces tattered and torn, bearing scars of conflict - worn like medals of honour. Malkie relished the prospect of moving out to the Schemes, new territory to claim as his own. The perfect setting for an ambitious young man, keen to make his mark.

Ten minutes later he returned to the one bedroomed tenement. He pushed the door ajar, half expecting Agnes to be standing waiting in the middle of the room, ready to tear into him over something or other.

The room was still. Malkie entered, he grabbed a damp towel from the drying rack. He held it towards his nostrils, only making it halfway before the stale mildew wrinkled his nose. Needs must. He dried off, doing his best to hold his breath whenever the towel came close to his face.

He finished in record time, driven on by the cold that was threatening to take lumps out of him if he delayed. Malkie reached on top of the cupboard, searching for remnants of Thompson senior’s leftover Old Spice talc, anything to mask the offensive odour. He found it and applied it under his arms. Blinking as his eyes watered from the powder, he raised his index finger and pressed it underneath his nose to quell the sneeze that threatened to erupt.

When it had passed he dressed in the far corner of the room. He wore the same clothes as the day before. Blue denim jeans, white t-shirt and his brown and beige tartan patterned jacket with the big collar. His appointment at the local bathhouse still three days off, he’d make do for now.

He skulked to the bedroom door. Shut - tight to the jamb. He twisted the white wooden knob, wincing as it squeaked, turning clockwise to three o’clock. Malkie put his shoulder to door, remembering that it had a tendency to stick. The door opened. He peered in around the edge. The bed was empty - undisturbed. Agnes hadn’t made it home. She’d either got lucky or was worse for wear, sleeping it off at her sister’s. Malkie had never known his maw to date other men. Not that he’d blame her even if she did. The way things stood, tied in with McAlister, and their arrangement, he got the impression the local godfather wasn’t the type to share his women.

Malkie decided it was time to make a house call. Violet’s place was less than three miles on foot. If he got a move on he could be there inside the hour. He made it as far as the first floor. There she was, collapsed, half slouched against the bannister rail. Sobbing.

He rushed to her, lifted her head. Her make-up smeared. Her eyes defeated. Puffy, swollen and red.

‘Maw,’ said Malkie. ‘What’s wrong. Tell me what’s happened? Someone hurt you? McAlister, did he do something? Talk to me?’

Agnes took Malkie’s hand and gripped it. Her red-rimmed eyes boring into his. ‘She’s gone…’ her voice tailed off as the tears rolled. ‘My sweet Violet, they’ve taken her…’

Agnes’s voice broke off again, her chest heaving in rapid motion as the sobbing vied for command.

‘You’re not making sense. What do you mean?’

‘She’s gone… Gone, I tell you.’

‘Gone where? Who took her?’

Malkie grabbed Agnes by the shoulders and tried to shake some sense into her. ‘Has someone got hold of aunt Violet? Tell me. I’ll go find her?’

Agnes fought to control her ragged breaths. ‘She’s dead, Malkie… Bastards killed her. Left her battered and naked. Her body discarded on waste ground.’

Malkie felt the anger rise within. ‘What? No. It can’t be. It’s got to be a mistake. Who told you this?’

‘It’s the truth, son… I’ve seen her with my own eyes. She’s dead.’

Malkie pulled Agnes towards him - held her close. ‘I’ll make this right. I swear to you, maw. I’ll find who did this.’

1

Back in eighty-eight, Vinnie Edwards ran the city. He controlled it all, nothing went down that he didn’t know about. Problem was, he didn’t figure on Malkie Thompson showing up and staking his claim.

Malkie and his crew started making noises mid-July of the same year. They travelled down from north of the border. Their destination, the Midlands, the former industrial heartland of England. They made for the central region, their impact immediate, ripping off a building society. Pure textbook heist, a daylight job, zero casualties, save for the cashier pissing himself.

Simple but effective. A three-man crew, one on the door, Frank waving a shooter, a modified double-barrelled shotgun, cut short, making it easy to conceal. The intention to intimidate, not to kill. George, his back to the counter, wielding a pickaxe handle. His role - crowd control. Malkie, his trusted Browning 9 mm pistol, embedded into the back of the cashier’s head, encouraging her to load three sports holdalls.

Two minutes forty, Malkie called time. All three felons strolled out into the Friday afternoon sunshine, without a single shot discharged in anger. Sixty grand up, they separated and disappeared into the throng of commuters eager to get home and begin their weekends. They laid low for seventy-two hours.

It had all the hallmarks of a pro job. It was clinical, executed with military precision. They were in and out in less three minutes door to door. The kind of job that grabs attention, bringing heat from the cops. The local faces getting hauled in for questioning, released a few hours later only to be harassed on their own doorsteps in the early hours. Everything filmed and documented for future evidence.

Vinnie Edwards’ name made it to the top of the list, a person of interest. The intel suggested he was the man in the know, he had to hiding something. The police had the thumbscrews on him within a couple hours of the robbery. The Enforcer battering ram busting down the door to his girlfriend Tanya’s apartment. They took it as a given they’d find him with his pants down. If nothing else, Vinnie was a creature of habit, guaranteed to get down and dirty every Friday afternoon. DI Chas Morrison, an informer, was deep in Vinnie’s pocket. The raid had to look authentic, he took along the police photographer to immortalise the moment. The kind that could ruin a man’s reputation.

Organised Crime operates on respect, lose that - everything is forfeit. Difficult for Edwards to maintain, photographed on his knees, gimp mask in situ, getting pummelled from behind with a luminous dildo.

2

Vinnie Edwards wanted answers fast. On his turf, nobody made a move without his consent. The robbery was unprecedented. The way he saw it; it had to have been pulled by an out of town outfit. No local crew wanted to go head to head with him. Part of him, reluctantly, couldn’t help but admire their audacious tenacity, which didn’t change the fact he’d have to kill them. No one went against the firm, more to the point no one crossed him.

Whoever they were, they had to expect repercussions. Can’t encroach on another man’s territory, pull a job and expect to disappear. They’d crossed the line, committed an act of war, and Edwards couldn’t let that go unanswered.

Truth was, Malkie Thompson had caught both Vinnie Edwards and the police napping, which caused embarrassment, and Vinnie was sure as hell it wouldn’t happen twice.

Edwards and the police had an understanding. He kept order, and they left him alone. Three blokes going equipped, waving guns around on a Friday afternoon meant all bets were off.

Morrison traded information, the kind that could have a detrimental effect on Edwards’ business interests, and was rewarded for his endeavours in helping the local business community. Paranoid about Internal Affairs, he covered his tracks. Morrison kept it simple, hard cash, no electronic transfers. IA had been into him for over five years, and had a tome of a file on him. Like Teflon, they couldn’t make it stick.

The way he saw it, safer to go the old way. Used notes, the denominations a mixture of tens and twenties. Fifties brought scrutiny, too many fakes on the market. He stuck with what he knew, the blue and the brown skins. Dividing the stash into three separate deposit boxes, located at three different locations. He also kept an emergency five grand, secreted in the lining of his mattress topper. His just in case money, enough to tide him over, never knowing when he might have to leave in the dead of night.

Thompson’s daylight raid not only threatened their way of life, but their very existence. With the top end chain of command asking awkward questions, Morrison’s survival depended on avoiding IAB. He managed that by keeping those above him sweet. He kicked up to the suits, who in return had his back.

The press were all over Thompson’s coup d’etat. The chief constable screaming for a quick result. Shooters on a Friday afternoon, scaring Joe Public shitless didn’t go down too well at the Masons Hall.

Pressure on, Morrison and Edward’s agreed to meet. Just the two of them on neutral ground, some place away from prying eyes. A one on one, a chance to straighten things out. Both agreed to come alone. The rules were simple, no firearms, no muscle, no wires. They met up on the site of a disused power station on the outskirts of town.

Vinnie had suspicions from the get go about Morrison’s involvement. Confident he had the contacts to put it in play. The question was, did he have the moxie? A dirty cop turning gangster, it wouldn’t be the first time.

Morrison turned up late. Agitated, convinced he was tailed by undercover officers, he’d taken a detour and gone cross-country. Familiar with the pathways, he followed the disused rail track, enabling him to make a rapid exit if things turned bad.

Edwards squinted his eyes against the sun and watched as the figure scrambled down the embankment.

Morrison scuttled the remaining four hundred yards. His thoughts clouded by the fact he only stood a fifty-fifty chance of walking away unharmed. He was sure of one thing, no way Edwards would keep his end of the bargain. His back up would be out of sight, waiting on his signal.

Morrison stopped three yards out. An imaginary line separating him from Edwards. A stand off for two would-be gunslingers.

Morrison broke the silence. ‘Something you need to tell me Vinnie, want to get it off your chest?’

Vinnie returned the stare. ‘Maybe I should be asking you the same thing?’

Morrison shuffled his feet over the rough terrain, the powder like dust rising knee high. ‘Lot of people getting twitchy.’

‘And?’

Morrison smirked, ‘important people Vinnie, the suits.’

‘Fucking pen pushers, what do they know?’

‘They want answers, things could turn ugly - real quick.’

Vinnie bared his teeth. ‘You threatening me now, Morrison?’

Morrison raised his palms to placate Vinnie. ’Take it the way it was intended - advice, nothing more.’

‘I don’t need your advice, detective.’

‘You ever consider, just for a moment - perhaps one of your boys has gone freelance, and forgot to mention it?’

‘Should have expected it,’ said Vinnie shaking his head, ‘got to hand it to you, Morrison, you’ve perfected it, got it down to a fine art, but then again it’s what you do, isn’t it?’

‘And what’s that Vinnie?’

‘The art of deflecting.’

‘We can do this all day Vinnie, but I’m a little short on time, and the result is the same. End of the day it doesn’t change a dammed thing.’

Vinnie stepped forward. ‘That how you’re playing this? The way I see it, you got yourself a little retirement plan. My guess is, a place in the sun, sipping Vodka Martinis.’

Morrison shook his head. ‘Got me all wrong, beer and a pasty more my thing.’ Morrison moved forward, nose to nose with Edwards. ‘Shit, up close - you don’t look so good, you sampling your own product again?’

‘Always the fucking comedian. Don’t be worrying about me, detective. You’ve got other concerns.’

‘Thing is Vinnie, you and me - we’re like family, and that means we look out for one another.’

‘We’re nothing like family.’ Vinnie thrust has hand forward grabbing Morrison’s windpipe. ‘You think I’d let a bent copper like you weasel his way in, what do you take me for?’ And what about that stunt you pulled?’

Morrison extricated himself from Vinnie’s grip. Rubbing at his bruised neck, ‘trust me, that was no stunt, choreographed excellence - maybe, but a stunt, no way. The photographer, he’s one of mine. Had to look authentic Vinnie, you can appreciate that, I’m sure?’

Vinnie took a step backwards and pulled his 9 mm, the muzzle less than six inches from Morrisons face.

‘Thought we agreed, no guns?’ said Morrison.

‘Yeah well, what can I say? I’m a criminal, don’t play by the rules. Now, put your hands on your head and get down on your knees.’

Morrison complied. ‘You plan on shooting me here Vinnie? Ask yourself this, who’s got your back once I’m gone, you thought about that?’

Vinnie laughed. ‘What, so now you’re the only bent cop on the force?’

He pressed the barrel to Morrisons forehead. ‘You’ve had your day, detective.’

Morrison closed his eyes.

Vinnie pulled the trigger, it clicked but the chamber was empty. Morrison’s eyelids snapped open. Vinnie stepped back and tucked the 9 mm back into his waistband.

‘Guess it’s your lucky day. Now, call off the surveillance, and I’ll go sort this - my way.’

Morrison pulled himself up from the dusty track, his heart hammering in his chest cavity, rubbing the dried mud away from his trousers. ‘Out of my hands Vinnie. Pressure’s on, and believe me, it’ll get a lot worse. Direct orders from the top. What, with that and the local elections, the media’s all over this. Public need to feel safe on the streets.’

Vinnie turned to go. ‘Want those pictures Morrison, all of them - hear me?’

‘Jesus, we back on that? Got to admit, was a bit of a shock. Never had you down for all that kinky stuff - each to their own.’ Morrison patted himself down, searching for his cigarettes. ‘Lads on shift enjoyed it, kept ‘em going for a while. Tasty stuff, Vinnie. Press would have a field day, local godfather. Sorry, I mean eminent businessman, caught in more than one compromising position. What would your wife and kid make of that? Let’s just call it insurance, in the unlikely event that anything were to happen to me.’

Edwards launched himself at Morrison, his right fist slamming into his ample gut. Morrison, winded, crumpled to the ground.

The imposing silhouette loomed over his target. ‘One word from me, that’s all it’ll take, and you’ll be hanging from a meathook by your ball sack.’

Morrison, on his hands and knees, his breathe coming in short rasps. ‘I was wondering how it must feel, for someone like you, knowing that a nobody can waltz in unchallenged and disappear with sixty grand. I mean that’s got to hurt, surely?’

‘When I find them, I’ll nail them to a fucking cross and parade them through the streets, just like carnival. I’ll tell you something else Morrison, if I shake hard enough I reckon your name’s gonna fall out somewhere.’

Morrison straightened to a standing position, still holding his gut. ’You’re not thinking straight Vinnie, must be down to your emotional state. Besides, quicker this gets sorted, the better for the both of us. So rein your boys in. This needs to stay below the radar. After which, you and I can renegotiate my fee.’

‘You’re a piece of work Morrison, think you can tell me how this plays out? You’re a dirty cop in a small town, how long do you think you’d last on the streets without my protection?’

Morrison unfazed by the revelation lit another cigarette. ‘If I were a betting man, I’d say all that strap on action’s starting to affect your judgement. Ask yourself this, why in God’s name would I sanction a job like this, and risk jeopardising our arrangement - all in broad daylight?’

Vinnie jabbed Morrison in the chest. ‘Your grimy prints are all over this, and when this is done, you and me, we’re gonna have ourselves, what the cockneys call a straightener, detective. You can count on it.’

3

Malkie and his crew laid low, content to let events play out. They’d managed to create a shit storm and avoid the fall out. All three remained below the radar. Back then, the name Malkie Thompson was unknown south of the border. A ghost, able to make a daylight strike and disappear. A classic hit and run job.

The easy pickings buoyed the fledgling firm. Glasgow, the past, was but a distant memory. The Midlands provided a new beginning, a chance to wipe the slate clean and write their own history. Thompson’s rules.

Meanwhile, the locals were getting restless. Money coming in short from all quarters. The population confident to take a risk, waiting to see how events would pan out.

Problem was, Vinnie Edwards had become complacent, expecting his reputation would deter any would-be challengers. He got that wrong. Malkie relished the opportunity, saw Edwards’ patch as the land of plenty. Now he wanted it all.

4

Glasgow

Violence in the blood, it was second nature to Malkie. He learnt his craft the hard way on the back streets of Glasgow. In the late seventies, during the punk revolution of bands such as the Clash and the Sex Pistols, he fell in with the street gangs. Popping a few pills, downed with cans of Tennents Super Strength, which tasted like tar. It did the trick, jacking him up, ready for the row. He would track down the rivals and get stuck in, close and personal, getting creative using anything that came to hand; bicycle chain, pool cue, flick knife, broken bottle.

Back then, it didn’t matter. No future, no prospects; they were Thatcher’s children of the North. Scotland, the land of the dispossessed, the forgotten, and the abandoned. To survive you had to make your own way.

Within eighteen months, Malkie was doing a stretch in Barlinnie. His first taste of life banged up. He put it to good use, getting in with the faces. He made himself known, attacking a warden on the first day. He went down the block, and got the shit kicked out of him. Four weeks later, his bruises healed, and his reputation enhanced, he was back on the wing.

The MacBride brothers, connected on the outside to the McAlister firm, approached him. Impressed by his appetite for violence, they took him on as muscle. What he lacked in stature he made up for in fury. Word soon went round not to cross Malkie Thompson.

Six months later, he’d served his time, he was out. Got himself a personal endorsement from the MacBrides. He’d changed and wanted something more. Rucking with the gangs lost its appeal. He needed money. Smashing heads and breaking bones wasn’t enough; Malkie had ambition.

He quit the pills and the drink. His dear old ma thought he’d turned Calvinist Presbyterian, thanking God for cleansing her son. He went along with it, what harm could it do? In the meantime, he sought out the MacBrides employer.

Back then, Ian McAlister was the man, a big name in the city of Glasgow, the kind that opened doors for a young man of ambition. McAlister spread his interests far and wide. He liked to diversify, and was into everything from salvage yards to slum rentals. Most of his money came from the racket, by putting the squeeze on local businesses and taxing them ‘for their own protection’ as he liked to call it. But the big money came from illegal gambling and whores. McAlister sank his hooks into everything from arcades, horses and dog tracks, right across to the lucrative bare-knuckle unlicensed boxing bouts he sponsored. His enforcers ran the streets. The working girls were under his protection, seventy percent of their earnings guaranteeing safety from rival pimps and freaks.

Malkie’s name was well known to McAlister. Back in the seventies, when he made house calls, Agnes Thompson was top of his list. As far back as 76 McAlister recognised the teenager’s potential. Intrigued by his brooding menace, he monitored Thompson’s progress all the way to Barlinnie.

The way they told it, the MacBrides reckoned on him being a face, having proved his worth tenfold while doing his time. He was a good earner, fearless, a man with a growing reputation and one to watch. Better to get him affiliated than run the risk of losing him to a rival firm. No point in storing up trouble for the future, so McAlister set him to work the next day.

It took three months for Malkie to move from driver/chauffeur to street enforcer. A fast learner, he soaked it up, spotting the flaws from the start. McAlister never considered his own blokes would dare skim the takings.

Malkie learned the trade from the ground up. All the time he kept his eyes and ears open. Within six months, confident he had watertight evidence, he went to McAlister. He laid it all out, dates and times, he managed to account for the missing percentages, and even threw in a couple of Polaroids. It didn’t go down well. McAlister threatened to rip Malkie’s fingernails out one by one. Malkie stood his ground, refusing to retract the accusation, telling McAlister his own crew were screwing him.

McAlister couldn’t accept the cold, hard truth staring him in the face. He had to make an example. He summoned Malkie. When he arrived, three masked attackers overpowered him, and taped him to a chair. McAlister went to work on him, pliers taking his thumbnail from his left hand, followed by his index finger. His screams penetrating a quarter of a mile radius. McAlister braced the third finger in the pliers, ‘Three to go, then I’m starting on the right hand, I’ll work my way through one by one if needs be.’

Malkie, panting like a dog, gritted his teeth, willing the ragged burning pain far away. ‘Won’t change a thing, telling you the truth. Go check it out; you’ll see I’m right.’

McAlister moved the pliers down to the finger joint, applying the pressure. ‘Okay, let’s just suppose there’s some element of truth to your story, my own guys stealing from me... Makes me look bad. That what this is about, Thompson, you trying to undermine me?’

‘Just trying to help you out.’

McAlister, jerked the pliers up and to the side snapping the finger. Malkie swallowed deep, insurgent pain puncturing his lungs, keeping the scream silent and internal – his eyes locked with McAlister’s the whole time.

McAlister admired his handiwork. ‘Hurts doesn’t it?’ Malkie’s middle finger ruined, hanging limp and flaccid, fragments of bone protruding torn skin. ‘Don’t go away now, I’ll be back directly, so we can finish our wee chat.’

5

Ten days later, Thompson and McAlister had a face to face at the Grosvenor Hotel in Glasgow’s West End.

McAlister embraced him like a long lost son. ‘Good to see you, Malkie, what’ll you drink, whisky, single malt right?’

‘I’m good thanks, water’s fine.’ He took a moment, taking in the plush surroundings. ‘Thought this place burnt down?’

‘You need to get out more, reopened back in eighty-two. Come on, not sure I can trust a man who won’t share a dram with me.’

‘Okay, make it a single.’

Down to business, Malkie ran through the story, going into detail about his methods to extract the truth, convincing McAlister neither had held out on him. The cash already spent, frittered away on women, expensive gifts and designer clothes.

McAlister looked around, checking civilians were out of earshot. ‘You did good Malkie, but now I’m two guys down, which means there’s an immediate vacancy. You up to it?’

‘Depends, what you’re offering?’

‘Shrewd, I like that. Don’t give anything away. That’s important in this life. Put it this way, what if I was to offer you territory? Free to govern it your way, you pay your cut like everyone else but it’s yours all the same.’

Malkie smiled. ‘Reckon I can live with that.’

‘Good man.’ Raising his glass, ‘slàinte mhath’.

‘Slàinte’

Malkie took over the territory, making it his business to do personal house calls. He upped the taxes, informing the owners if they didn’t like it, they best go to McAlister and put in a complaint. He said they’d been complicit in defrauding the organisation and should consider it a fixed penalty, to be paid direct to him and no one else. He told them to ask around about him, confident in letting the street banter do the rest.

Things remained that way for a while, but it was never going to be enough. Malkie had plans, and it didn’t take long for him to grow restless. He’d outgrown McAlister. The man was weak, much too trusting, ultimately compromised. Malkie wanted autonomy, no kick ups. Freedom to operate his way.

And besides, he owed McAlister a date with the pliers.

6

Back in the autumn of eighty-seven, McAlister had a job in the planning. A security depot with bundles of cash for the taking. He’d outsourced it. He got the word on two specialists, freelancers who operated across the UK and Europe. He had to put himself beyond suspicion. When the cops put the finger on him, his alibi had to be solid. He wanted Thompson there, eyes on, nothing more.

John Blake and Kieran Williams spent most of the year living down on the Algarve and worked on personal recommendation. The call came via their contact, Callaghan, a Newcastle based criminal. McAlister, a big name in Glasgow, was already known to them, and well respected. With their cash reserves running low, they flew out the next day.

McAlister had an insider at the Royal Mint processing centre, a low-key unit on the edge of an industrial estate in Dumfries. A place where cash gets destroyed when it’s taken out of circulation. Intel suggested there could be as much as a hundred and fifty grand in there. Unmarked armoured vans drove in and dropped the cash boxes, paperwork got signed off and the vans departed.

The idea was to wait for the last delivery. Three months of surveillance and inside knowledge said this happened each night at eleven-thirty. Blake and Williams were to lie in wait, Malkie to act as driver and look out. The security guards would unload the cash boxes. Being the last drop on the manifest ensured they weren’t in as much of a rush, taking time to flirt with the girls working inside. It was perfect.

McAlister’s plant was Rachel Proctor, a young single mum motivated by the opportunity to make a little extra cash. A girl of natural ability, twenty-three-years-old, full lips and bumps in all the right places. From day one, she took to wearing a uniform blouse two sizes too small, accentuating her assets. It proved to be a big hit with all the drivers.

Two middle-aged blokes walking out into the cold night air, their heads full of fantasy, the last thing they’d expect was to be staring down the barrel of a sawn off shotgun.

The first part went to plan, the guards overpowered with ease. A knock to the head, bound and gagged, relieved of their uniforms, and bundled into the van out of sight. Clockwork – less than forty-five seconds.

Blake hammered on the door, and waved at the security camera. The processing supervisor, a guy called Michael Phillips, looked at the monitor. All he could see was the guard holding up the paperwork, pointing at something. The cameras have no audio, so he can’t make out what it is he’s gesturing to, so he opened the door.

Blake rushed forward, slamming the butt of the shotgun into the supervisor’s mouth. Blood and teeth spewed to the floor. Phillips writhed in pain as Blake delivered a vicious snap kick to his groin, another to the solar plexus. Williams steamed past, securing the area, the supervisor caught in the frenzied maelstrom, powerless to react or raise the alarm.

Malkie waited in the car, feeling as though he’d been reduced to errand boy. In his mind, he’s way past all of this. He’s Malkie Thompson, rising star of the Glasgow underworld. Yet here he is, nothing more than a glorified chauffeur. So he’s thinking to himself about how ungrateful McAlister actually is, and that he doesn’t realise what he’s done for him, concluding that he deserves more.

Five minutes pass, he checks his watch, his eyes flit to the rear-view mirror. He’s getting twitchy. A gut feeling telling him something’s wrong. Perhaps McAlister’s set him up, and now he’s expecting to see the blue lights over the hill any second.

Malkie couldn’t wait any longer. Fuck it. He was out of the car, stomping back to the unit, back through the wire fence he’d cut a hole in thirty minutes earlier. Across the asphalt, he broke into a jog, the wind blowing hard, muting his hearing. He saw the lights from the unit, the steel roller door shut but the side door left ajar.

Closer now, the sound of raised voices. A mixture of agitation and excitement washed over him. He sprinted head down into the gale, slowing as he neared the door. Panting, his lungs burning, he pulled out the Beretta M9, checking the load, one in the chamber ready to go.

Crouching low, scanning the area left to right. He spotted John Blake lying on the floor, blood seeping from his head, lifeless. Farther in, he found Williams, wild-eyed, waving his gun around threatening to shoot anyone who moved.

It turned out the supervisor had a second in command. Protocol dictated that he came looking for the number one within ninety-seconds of radio silence. A little detail Rachel Proctor had neglected to pass on.

So the assistant supervisor, a young athletic type, decided to be the have a go hero. He rushed Blake. It turned out he snuck up behind him and whacked him with a bat. Put him down and whacked him some more, killing him outright. Blake didn’t even get a chance to throw a punch.

Adrenalin flowing, the assistant activated the silent alarm before turning his attention to Williams, who was none the wiser, stacking the cash, getting taken down and tackled to the floor. The first he knew of it, he had four guys on him, twisting him up. His shooter went off, and they backed away. The only thing was, he managed to shoot himself in the lower leg, tearing his calf muscle clean off. Lead pellets peppered his knees and thighs, leaving him bleeding out like fresh road kill.

Malkie assessed the scene. There was nothing for it, Blake was lying face down, his hand clutching a grey mail sack stuffed with used notes. Malkie guessed he was already dead on account of the dark congealed blood pooling round his head. Williams wasn’t looking so good either. Propped against a filing cabinet, arterial spray covering a two-yard radius, stray pellets embedding the femoral artery. No chance of him getting out of there. Malkie took stock. Williams’ eyes rolled round in his head, struggling to focus. Time was running out.

Out of options, sirens already faint in the distance, he had two minutes before they closed in. Malkie had to get out of there. It was a salvage job and he needed to make the best of it. He approached Blake and put one bullet in his head. He turned and walked up to Williams, popped him straight in the face, twice, prising the holdall from his fingers.

News reached McAlister, and he was livid. Ranting at a small select group of his inner circle, those he trusted most. ‘What the fuck was he thinking?’

‘Time to clip his wings, he’s way out of line,’ said one of the Lieutenants.

Another chipped in. ‘Two freelancers dead and no sign of the loot. He’s fucked us. The only good news, if there is any, neither Blake or Williams were affiliated. We can do without that kind of shit.’

A third voice offered his opinion. ‘Bound to be fallout. End of the day, it’s not the Wild West. Can’t go round offing contractors at the scene, Thompson’s got to go.’

McAlister sent a car ordering Malkie to be brought in. He didn’t resist, confident he’d made the right choice. Problem being, he didn’t foresee McAlister’s dilemma, his reputation, his very position at stake. Malkie was supposed to have followed orders, instead he’d used his initiative, and in the process stepped over the mark.

McAlister wanted assurances Malkie wasn’t giving him the runaround. He needed to see for himself. Whatever the outcome, an example had to be made. At the same time, conflicted by his own thoughts, McAlister knew Thompson used his nous. He’d tidied up the loose ends. That said, both the money and Thompson had disappeared, and if McAlister wanted to maintain his position as the Governor, no one could be seen to get a free pass, not even Malkie Thompson.

7

Thompson’s body bore the marks of a beating, angry red weals forming on his chest. It didn’t end there, swelling to the face, a split lip, and blood congealing around his mouth, left no doubt he’d been worked over. They’d stripped him naked, and gaffer taped him to the chair. Malkie still had his head held high, staring down his balaclava-clad assailants. Taunting them, ‘when this is done, you boys are gonna beg me to end it quick.’

They stuffed a dirty old rag in his mouth to shut him up. Then it began. Three blokes equipped with rubber hoses. Thompson knew what was coming, tensing his body, then relaxing it, regulating his breathing, getting himself in the zone.

It started off slow, McAlister’s men lining up, taking it in turn. The hose cutting through the air, like a swarm of mosquitoes, each striking Malkie’s face, then his chest, finishing, beating down on top of his thighs. The first few blows stinging like fuck. The adrenaline coursing through his body, numbing the pain. McAlister’s crew were just getting warmed up. No words, just malicious intent, building to a silent crescendo of violence.

Two more stepped forward, tipping Malkie back in the chair. The prep work completed, now for the main event. The rhythmic pattern of pain raining down on the soles of his feet.

McAlister emerged from darkest recess, crouching close to Thompson. ‘You did well, problem is, you didn’t stick to the plan. You disobeyed my orders.’ He took his time to inspect the damage. ‘I see you and the boys have got acquainted. You need to understand something Malkie, these boys, they enjoy their work, and they can do this all day.’

McAlister moved down to the bloated feet, jabbing them with his finger. ‘They’ve got the look of raw meat, but I’d say there’s still a way to go.’ He used both hands to squeeze each foot in turn. ‘Nice work, boys,’ he said with a nod of appreciation. Malkie choked back a groan. McAlister moved back, closer to his face. ‘Take it as a lesson, son. You need to know your place.’ Whispering close to his ear, ‘can’t have employees running wild, it’s bad for business.’ He took the rag from Malkie’s mouth. ‘Now where’s my money?’

Malkie spat a mixed globule of blood and mucus to the floor, and grabbed a lungful of air. ‘Safe, least it was.’

McAlister’s eyes narrowed. ‘Meaning?’

‘They’re watching. You should have trusted me.’

‘Who the fuck are they?’

’The police, who’d you think?’

McAlister smirked. ‘You’re a fucking comedian, Thompson,’ he said, jabbing the Browning 9 mm into the side of Malkie’s swollen cheek. ‘Live or die, your choice.’

Thompson glared at him. Unflinching. ‘Your hired help fucked it; thanks to me you’ve got no loose ends. I took care of that. And yeah, even got some cash, two bags. You’d rather I’d stayed, and got lifted?’

McAlister didn’t answer, content to listen, for now. He motioned to one of his men to give Malkie some water.

Malkie swallowed down hard, his instant reaction to puke, but he managed to hold it in. ‘No trace. No connection. That’s down to me.’

McAlister reholstered the gun. ‘I always liked you, Malkie, it’s why you’re still breathing. You’re a maverick, got the ability to go far, but could just as easy go to your grave. Question is, what to do with you, eh? The boys here, they think you’re dangerous, like a rabid dog.’

He was up, moving round Malkie’s carcass assessing the damage, mulling over the options. ‘So, were you running or were you waiting it out like you say? Guess I’ll have to ponder on that some more.’

McAlister signalled for the gaffer tape to be cut. ‘No hard feelings, Malkie. Now go home, and get yourself cleaned up. You’ve got two hours and be sure to have the money. Understand?’

Thompson nodded his head, spitting fresh blood to the floor.

‘And Malkie, don’t fuck about. Johnston will drive you home. Keep you company, wouldn’t want you getting lonely now, would we?’

Back at the house, an old tenement block on Ardenlea Street, Malkie hobbled in, Johnston two steps behind, checking the area before entering the house. He followed Malkie through to what passed for a kitchen, more of a larder equipped with an enamel Belfast sink. Malkie turned to Johnston, smiling. ‘Nothing personal, you know how it is.’

A quizzical look formed on Johnston’s face. ‘The fu…’ incomplete words garrotted from his voice-box as Frank noosed the cheese-wire around his throat.

Malkie turned back to the sink, cleaning himself up as best he could. Most of it superficial cuts and bruises. Ten days time and there’d would be no trace. The cracked ribs were a different story. Even strapping them up, he was still looking at six weeks plus recovery time.

McAlister waited till Thompson was in the car, before putting in the call. His south of the border connection, a sassenach lone operator. The call connected on the third warble.

‘Baxter?’

‘Speaking.’

‘You know who this is?’

‘Yeah, I’ve got a pretty good idea. How’s the weather up there?’

‘Shite, as usual.’

Baxter closed his eyes and summoned the words, doing his best to block out the memories of his last north of the border job. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘Indeed it has. So here’s the thing, I’ve got some trash to dispose of, a priority job. You able to collect?’

Caught between a rock and a hard place, the sassenach took a moment to mull over his options. ‘Depends on just how bad the smell is.’

‘The worst.’

Baxter checked his watch. Trying but failing to convince himself it was just another job. If nothing else, he’d been thrown a lifeline, a chance to appease Callaghan. ‘Give me four hours.’

‘Make it three, and I’ll double your money.’ McAlister disconnected the call.

The same night, Thompson turned up at McAlister’s house. Two o’clock in the morning, standing in the hallway.

McAlister wasn’t taking any chances, his gun trained on Malkie’s chest cavity. ‘You’re late.’

‘Had to take a detour, can’t be too careful. I needed to be sure we weren’t followed. Wouldn’t want the police turning up, be kind of hard to explain,’ he said, gesturing to the bag.

McAlister, his suspicions on high alert, patted him down. Keeping the gun on him the whole time. ‘Where’s Johnston?’

Malkie ignored the question, letting his thoughts drift, dead and buried. Unzipping the holdall, he pulled out a bundle. ‘Parking up, you prefer to wait?’

McAlister directed him to the office, the muzzle of the Browning 9 mm pressed deep into the base of his skull. ‘Lay it down on the desk.’

Malkie complied, and awaited further instruction. McAlister made his way round to the other side of the oak desk, the Browning pointing at Malkie’s face. ‘Count it out, nice and slow.’

He reached into the bag, and began to pile the cash in to neat bundles. ‘I was coming in, nothing’s changed.’

McAlister watched the bundles pile up, with the 9 mm trained on Malkie’s chest, he took a seat behind the desk, relaxing his trigger finger a little. ‘Know what you are, Thompson? A fucking enigma.’

Malkie noticed the pressure on the trigger ease, he kept talking, ‘so, we straight now?’

McAlister remained silent, assessing the man in front of him.

Malkie reached inside as if he was pulling out another bundle, ‘We’re good?’ He said trying to keep the irritation from his voice.

McAlister looked beyond Malkie towards the door. ‘Even as a kid, you were a cocky wee shite. I put up with it, for your mothers sake. Always looked out for you, and this is what I get.’

Malkie shook his head. ‘Ian McAlister, aye, a regular Knight of the fucking Realm. This is you looking out for me, is it? Ready to shoot me in your own home.’

‘Shut up and count the money, Thompson.’

Malkie averted his eyes for a second, peering down into the bag. ‘It was you, wasn’t it? I knew back then. Kept my mouth shut. Couldn’t bring myself to tell her.’

McAlister tightened his grip on the 9mm. ‘The fuck are you talking about?’

Fixing his eyes on McAlister, ‘Violet.’

‘That’s what this is about? Some two bit…’

Malkie pulled the trigger twice, his gun hidden deep within the holdall. The bullets ripping into McAlister’s torso.

He had seconds before the shots alerted the bodyguard. McAlister was alive. Squirming, his white shirt soaked crimson.

Thompson hid behind the door, the bodyguard entered, his weapon drawn. He went straight to McAlister. Rasping gurgling sounds emanating from dual holes to his chest. Malkie stepped from behind the door, the bodyguard turned, aiming his gun, but it was too late. The bullet ripping into his abdomen, he slumped to the ground, the .38 handgun falling from his grip.

Floored, the bodyguard clawed at the ground, trying to reach for his piece. Malkie stood over him, ‘Chose the wrong employer, pal.’

Putting another bullet in him, before repacking the bag. Malkie turned to leave, then stopped. Setting the holdall down on the desk, he retrieved the pliers. ‘Guess I’ll be taking a keepsake, a memento of our time together.’

The armed robbery in Dumfries had the police and journalists swarming all over it like flies round shit. The tabloids, resembled sharks in a feeding frenzy, as they salivated and gorged over the two fatalities found at the scene. National news even sent a London based crew, in the hope of securing an eyewitness account. BBC headline news broke the story that a local businessman with alleged ties to organised crime had been gunned down in his own home.

The Police refused to comment upon speculation that the victim had several teeth forcibly removed with pliers found at the scene, or that the two cases were in any way connected.

8

West Midlands 1988

Thompson was standing outside the gym, his eyes darting left then right, the street deserted. He glanced back over his shoulder towards the car. He nodded his head. The waiting over, time for the show and tell.

Edwards sat ringside, surrounded by his main players. Supposed big hitters. Local hard men. The kind who most right-minded people would cross the road to avoid.

Malkie stood in the doorway, observing the scene. The purpose not to antagonise, more of a reconnaissance mission, deep in enemy territory.

A crowd of six or seven bodies had gathered, watching two fighters sparring. He guessed the big guy they were fawning over was Edwards.

One of the minders turned to grab a water bottle, spotting the stranger lingering at the back of the gym, ‘we’re closed, mate, private training session.’

Malkie said nothing, continuing to stare, his eyes burning into Edwards, willing him to turn and face him. The minder was getting impatient, striding towards the figure. ‘You deaf, pal? Closed. Now fuck off.’

Malkie remained still. ‘Heard you the first time, pal.’ He pointed towards the large figure, ‘I’m guessing he’s Edwards. Go tell your boss I’m here.’

The minder’s eyes strayed to the holdall, his hands twitching. Concern on his face, unsure whether he was staring into the eyes of a gunman. Keeping his eyes locked with the stranger, watching for any sudden moves, he called over shoulder, ‘boss, you got a visitor.’

Edwards turned, irritated at the interruption. He didn’t recognise the figure in the doorway. ‘And you are?’

‘Name’s Thompson, Malkie Thompson.’

Blank faces, followed by a two-second silence, seemed more like two minutes, before one of Edwards’ Lieutenants spoke up. ‘That supposed to mean something?’

Malkie smiled, and opened the holdall. ‘Depends how you choose to look at it.’

He proceeded to take out a bundle of cash, keeping his eye on the minder, watching as his right arm started to reach towards the back of his joggers, ready to pull, what could only be a concealed handgun.

‘Easy, big fella, no drama,’ said Malkie, as he counted tens and twenties, letting them float to the floor. He switched his focus to Edwards. ‘Consider this a peace offering. This is your cut, two grand.’ He waited, but there was no response, just Edwards’ cold murderous stare.

‘Okay, we’ll play it your way, ’ said Malkie, backing away towards the entrance. Satisfied, he turned and pushed through the old battered wooden double doors, making his way to the bottom of the stairs, where he stopped to listen.

‘....taking the fucking piss, Vin. We should do the bastard, now.’

‘No, not like this. Now we’ve got a face and a name. Let’s get the background, we want all of ’em.’ He turned to another of his Lieutenants, ‘get me Morrison, now.’

Malkie exited the building and sauntered to the car, Frank and George waiting inside.

‘How’d it go?’

‘Like I said, George, piece of piss.’

Frank adjusted the rear-view mirror. ‘Ripe for the taking?’

‘Falling from the tree, Frankie.’

Contact made. Malkie had walked into the lion’s den unarmed, dumped two grand on the floor and walked out unscathed. An urban legend in the making.

Two days later, Edwards sent his reply.

9

Malkie, Frank and George were taking the opportunity to relax, shooting a couple of frames in their new home, Breaks snooker club. Malkie had ingratiated himself with the owner, Charlie Green, a washed up fifty something - using his redundancy pay-out to realise his lifetime dream. Malkie offered his usual terms, protection in return for thirty percent of the weekly takings.

Now Green’s no hero, he’s heard the stories about an unknown group of Glaswegians shaking down Edwards’ firm, and wreaking havoc in the locality. Besides, he likes his kneecaps the way they are, so he’s content to play the role of glorified gopher and tea-boy, at least until equilibrium is restored.

George was at the table, readying himself for his shot on black when he clocked the newcomers. ‘We got company.’

Malkie took a hit on his drink. ‘I see them. No bother. Can’t let a good malt go to waste boys.’

Frank moved to the rear of the bar area, reaching under the counter for his trusty bat. He made a show of placing it in clear sight, topside of the bar. He looked over towards Malkie, ‘five on three, things could get interesting.’

Malkie nodded, ‘aye, they could Frank,’ draining the remainder of his whisky.

The first of the uninvited guests stepped forward, his height somewhere close to six five. Malkie calculated that he had to be weighing in at sixteen stone plus. He recognised him from the boxing gym, one of two that had been sparring in the ring. The others held back, fanning out across the room, hoping to gain the advantage when events got lively.

The boxer spoke with a local midland accent, not quite full Birmingham, but something that passed for a watered down wider Brummie accent. His voice was a little higher than Malkie had expected, considering his size and bulk. ‘Vinnie Edwards sends his regards.’

‘Sure he does, so where is he?’

‘Mr Edwards wants a meet, you’re to come with us, alone,’ he said, emphasising the last part of the statement, as he opened his jacket to reveal the 9 mm.

Malkie nodded his head and smirked. ‘You even know how to use that, son?’

The would-be hard-man shuffled his feet and balled his fists, his right hand reaching to the inside of his jacket. ‘Bringing you in one way or the other.’

‘That so?’ Malkie stood, cracking his neck, before taking his jacket off, and handing it to George.

Rolling his sleeves up, he loosened his tie, lifting it over head, and placing it down on the table, before striding towards the messenger. ‘You’re gonna have to take me down, and just so we’re clear, I’m not one for going quietly.’

The messenger took one pace forward. ‘Wouldn’t have it any other...’

Sentence unfinished, as Malkie delivered a head-butt to the bridge of the messenger’s nose. He fell to the floor. Malkie was straight on him, his boot crunching into the victim’s ruined face, his cheekbone shattering on impact.

The would-be assailant reduced to a bloodied pulp, Malkie relieved him of his weapon, before turning his attention to the remaining four. ‘You boys wanna go the same way?’

The largest of the group stepped forward, bat in hand. Three stood their ground, box cutters ready to strike. Malkie placed the 9 mm on the table. ‘Won’t be needing that.’

The guy with the bat advanced. Shorter than his felled comrade, he stood three inches taller as he faced off with Malkie.

‘That was bang out of order, jock, won’t have it as easy with me.’ He swung the bat in a wild arc, missing his target. Malkie stepped in close before he had chance to re-aim. Locking the attackers arm, he delivered a snap kick to the groin, following it up with a punch to the solar plexus. The assailant crumpled. Malkie grabbed his polo shirt collar, pulling him towards him, finishing him off with a head-butt to the bridge of the nose. Retrieving the bat, he pointed it towards the remaining box cutter boys. ‘Come on lads; time to show us what you’re made of.’

Two of the crew rushed forward, growling with menace. They’d covered less than three feet, before George and Frank brought them down clean and quick, a mixture of furious kicks and precision stamping, rendering them useless.

Malkie advanced towards the door, on a collision course with the last man standing.

He was still playing at the hard man routine when Malkie cornered him. Up close it became clear he was younger than the others, by at least three or four years. ‘First time, eh,’ said Malkie sizing him up.

The youth did his best to stop his arm from shaking. ‘Come any closer, and I’ll shank you.’

‘Course you will,’ said Malkie, goading him into action.

He made a wild lunge, Malkie batted his arm away with ease, one hand grabbing the youth round the throat, while the other pinned his box cutter wrist to his side as he slammed him into the wall.

‘Drop it.’

Cowed into submission, the youth dropped the box cutter to the floor.

‘What’s Edwards’ playing at, eh, sending boys to do a man’s job?’

Frank and George made their way over, checking on those they’d dispatched.

‘Reckon it’s his first outing boys?’ said Malkie, as Frank and George joined him.

‘Fucking YTS on the job training - except it’s not panned out the way they told you, has it?’ said Frank, getting up close and personal in youth’s face.

George stepped closer, the three Glaswegians forming an arc around the youth. ‘Now you’re in a whole new world of shit.’ He glanced to Malkie, ‘what do you want to do with this wee shite?’

‘Cut him from ear to ear,’ said Frank, retrieving the box cutter from the floor.

The youth opened his mouth to speak. ‘I didn’t… I…’

‘Don’t piss yourself, son. You’ve seen enough, eh?’ said Malkie.

The youth struggled to catch his breath as the panic set in.

‘Go tell Edwards I don’t dance to his tune or anyone else’s. He wants’ a meet, he comes here in person. Now get out before I carve you up, and send you on your way with a wee souvenir.’

The youth didn’t need telling twice, scrabbling for the door without so much as a backward glance to his battered comrades.

After the event, the word soon went round that Edwards’ crew got taken down in the snooker hall. Vinnie never did take up Malkie’s offer of a meet. Instead, he took the time to regroup, and to plan his next move.

Edwards’ unwillingness to challenge Malkie head on, proved just how weak he really was. Malkie took his inability to man-up as the green light to expand, and he wasted no time going about it. He gave the order to Frank and George to start moving in on the local pub trade. They got to work, making collections in return for the protection of Malkie Thompson. Once secured, he moved onto the restaurants and fast-food outlets. Inside one month, Thompson’s crew had gone from a one-off bank robbery to extortion. Now they had their sights set on the casino and nightclubs in the centre of town – the heartland of Edwards’ Empire.

In the weeks that followed Vinnie Edwards brought in outside contractors, tasked with taking down the Glaswegian upstarts. The outcome was the same, Malkie either bought them off, or if they preferred to try their luck and fulfil their contractual obligation to Edwards, he had George and Frank dispose of them by whichever means they deemed appropriate.

To the outside world and any that still harboured doubts, the message was clear; Malkie Thompson and his crew were in it for the long haul. Street level banter cemented the organisation’s reputation. Malkie’s crew were a breed apart, uncompromising, and fearless.

10

Malkie acquired a derelict pub, empty since nineteen eighty-four, picking it up for a fraction of the going rate. In return he had to do some basic housekeeping, clearing out the rodents and undesirables.

Within three months, it was fully operational. The Kings Retreat. A boozer right in the heart of town, better still, in Edwards’ own back yard. Acquisition of the Kings marked the beginning of the turf wars. Edwards made the first move, desperate to regain ground, above all, he needed to rebuild his reputation or risk losing everything.

Back then, Malkie and his firm were growing in stature, and building on their territorial gains. Frank and George took it in turn to make the collections, which happened each Friday morning. It took a couple of hours to work round the array of betting shops, off licences and fast food joints, and guaranteed to always finish up with a visit to the Thai massage parlour located above the old junk shop. A perk of the job, and a chance to work away the stresses of the week.

On the day in question Frank was back at base, holed up in the Kings Retreat, acting as protection for the boss. Vinnie Edwards had upped the stakes, making two botched attempts to take out Malkie, a failed hit and run and a reluctant gunman adding to the list of calamities. So now, Malkie had round the clock security while he figured out how to remove Edwards.

Meetings with DI Morrison provided an insight into his operation and his personal life. Morrison reached out to Malkie, sensing a power shift, offering his services, negotiating terms for mutual benefit. At the time, Malkie didn’t realise he was playing both sides.

Edwards’ firm had been tracking George all morning, monitoring his movements through their former territory. The promise of getting some payback making it all the sweeter. Watching Thompson’s bagman collect was like joining the dots. No point in rushing in. He still had two-thirds of the round to go, not counting the newer acquisitions.

George exited the betting shop via the fire door to avoid police surveillance. Checking left and right, he stepped out into the rain. Head down, he scurried along, making his way back to the high street. He got within a few yards of main road, but it was never going to happen.

Three of Edwards’ crew blocked his exit. No need for introductions, he recognised their faces from the snooker hall. Looking for a viable alternative, George turned, he managed two paces, then found himself confronted by three more goons all baying for blood, his blood.

No way out. George looked back in the direction of the fire door, his only hope of escape. It slammed shut, followed by the sound of the internal bolt mechanism sliding into place. So this is it. This is how it ends, in a rubbish-strewn back alley on a rainy day. Fuck that.

He was out of options. If he was going down, it would be with his fists flying. He took his jacket off, folding it in half, careful to place it behind him out of the rain on top of a royal blue industrial bin. Positioning himself in a wide stance, he lowered his centre of gravity. Gotta make the best of it. He readied himself, eager to take down as many as he could. Time for some old school moves.

They stalked in like a pack of hyenas taunting him. ‘Gonna mess you up real good, old man.’

He ignored them, and remained focused. The first rushed him from the right. George let him get close, conscious of leaving his left side exposed, sensing movement, he jerked his elbow backwards catching the second would-be assailant clean in the face, taking him out cold. He concentrated on his right again, his attacker’s over-confidence, his undoing. Like a king cobra, George struck, finger-jabbing him in the throat. His victim crumpled to his knees, flailing hands clutching at his voice box. Two down, four remaining. Now they closed ranks, coming in tandem simultaneously from both sides.

George was mid-flow, kicks and punches in all directions, his life hanging in the balance, his breath a series of short rasps. The end game in play, he brought down another with a left hook. George stomped, bringing his foot down heavily, repeating the action over and over. He wanted the bastard dead, ignoring the punches raining down to the back of his own head, each blow thundering down like a mallet, he continued to stamp his size tens.

Fending off two more from the front, no time to avert his eyes, not even for a split second. That’s when he felt the sharp pain to his right kidney. He stumbled, clutching the wound, stars scudding into vision, don’t black out. Rain-diluted blood ran free from his scalp, into his eyes and down his face. He ignored it, squinting through the crimson blur, his attackers on hold.

‘Come on, finish it,’ he said, goading them into action.

They closed in for the kill.

Swan Song. George went into program mode, like a Highland warrior of old, fighting to the death. The adrenalin overload blocked out most of the onslaught. Numb to the pain, he kept going, the pace unrelenting. From nowhere, his knees buckled, as the last elements of life drained away. Everything spun, his vision blurring before fading to black.

11

Edwards’ roll of the dice backfired, all it did was increase Thompson’s determination to break him.

Malkie, brooding and silent, as he stared out the window. His head filled with the vision of George rigged up to life support, it was touch and go. Since the attack Frank had taken on the role of chauffeur. He slotted the cassette into the player, the sound of opera filling the car. Incomprehensible to his own ears, he guessed it was Italian. Malkie’s choice, not his.

Frank glanced over to his boss, his eyes fixed somewhere in the middle distance. His own thoughts drifting back to Glasgow, and how far they’d come in a short space of time. The Midlands proving fertile ground, but with a heavy price tag.

Malkie had laid out the plan, a direct move against Edwards at his family home. It didn’t sit right with Frank. It went against the unwritten rules. He tried voicing his opinion. ‘All I’m saying is...’

Malkie cut him short. ‘He’s a cancer, needs cutting out, that’s all there is to it.’

Frank tried again. ‘So we get Morrison to set up a meet, we do it there. That way it’s clean, and ethical.’

‘It’s never clean, Frank, you should know that by now and what’s all this shite about ethics?’

‘You go after him in his home, that’s personal, he’s got family. What d’you want to do, take them out as well? The Old Bill will be all over us like a rash.’

Malkie didn’t answer, keeping his expression blank, watching the world pass by in a blur.

Thirty-seconds passed before he broke the silence. ‘He’s forced my hand, two attempts, Frank, not once but twice, he ain’t stopping till I’m dead. This is a war. Think you’re immune, he’ll be coming for you next and your family, that what you want?’

Frank fixed his eyes on the rear view mirror. ‘We can negotiate, call a truce. We’re not on the East Side anymore, it’s not like it used to be.’

‘You don’t like it, Frank, walk away.’ He let it hang in the air between them, like a menacing dark shroud.

Walking away was never an option. No way Frank was going to see out his days looking over his shoulder.

The things he knew, there was no chance Malkie was letting him disappear into the sunset. He couldn’t live out his days waiting for the knock on the door, and having to deal with the constant state of paranoia. That was no way to live. He’d seen it happen to others. Responsible for dispatching a few of them to the next life himself. In the end, they welcomed it. Anything to end the turmoil. Frank wasn’t going out like that. He was in it for life. He couldn’t cash in the chips because things got a little rough. However it played out, he was Malkie’s right hand.

Frank floored the accelerator. He kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead, but remained silent, his inner voice raging within.

The unfolding scenario, way beyond reason.

12

The drive out took a little over thirty minutes. Tooled up, weapon of choice, three jerry cans of four-star petrol stowed in the boot. Edwards’ place backed on to the golf course, a solitary detached new build. The nearest house over a quarter of a mile away. Isolated, away from prying eyes. It was perfect.

Halfway down the gravel driveway, Frank killed the headlights, no point in announcing their arrival. Little chance of anyone still being at the clubhouse at four in the morning. Still, it paid to be cautious, no point in taking unnecessary risks. Not the kind that could get them banged up or worse.

The car came to a halt. Frank popped the boot. Malkie told him to turn the car around, and to leave the engine running, with the lights off.

‘You sure about this, Malkie?’

‘Said your piece already. Not going soft on me, Frank, you of all people?’

‘Soft don’t come into it. Just want to be certain you’re thinking straight, that’s all.’

‘We get this done, it’s finished. Territory’s ours, no argument. I guarantee you Frank, after this, no one’s gonna dare fuck with us.’

From there, it was a short sprint across to the ninth hole. A five-foot hedgerow separating the back of Vinnie’s property from the green. Malkie lobbed the first can over into the garden. It thudded onto the lawn, leaving a deep indentation from the impact. The noise louder than he expected, he waited for the bedroom light to illuminate. Thirty-seconds passed. Nothing. He picked up the second can, forced his way through the thicket. Placing it down, he reached back through and pulled the third to him. He waited, scanning the darkness. Silence. Safe to move forward. Two paces in, he stopped - listening to the night. Nothing. Security light inactive. Everything going to plan.

If Morrison’s information was good, Edwards had a routine. A TV dinner washed down with bourbon, always a double Jack Daniels. Refilled at least twice before bedtime. Enough to relax, unwind, and forget about his troubles.

According to Morrison, Vinnie would be alone, and with his wife out of town he had plans for Tanya to visit, at least for part of the evening. That said, he’d have given his minder the night off, leaving him free to participate in his darkest fantasies without embarrassment or interruption.

Malkie paused by the patio doors, jerry cans ready to go. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out the pre-cut key. He inserted it into the lock. It was stiff, he waggled it left to right. Nothing. Shit. It was a bad cut. Malkie cursed Billy Kane under his breath, it was a simple job, he’d even messed that up. ‘Fucker. Should have taken care of it myself.’

He tried again, pulling the handle towards him, applying more pressure, second time around it clicked into place.

Opening the door, he found himself standing in the kitchen-diner, soon to be another man’s grave. He took a second to observe the scene. Edwards had ensured his wife had every modern convenience on the market. All the trappings of success for a mobster’s wife, a double-range stove, American style refrigerator and coffee maker.

He took a couple of paces farther in, listening for the tell-tale squeak of the upstairs floorboards. All quiet, a thought flashed into his head that it could be a set up. Frank had already voiced his concerns about the legitimacy of the act. He pushed it aside, no way Frank would betray him. But Morrison, that was a different matter. Never trust a dirty cop.

Malkie opened the first can, sloshing it over the worktops, up the walls, and over the oak dining table. Making his way into the TV room, he was greeted by two huge, black leather sofas adjacent to a walnut entertainment cabinet. He emptied the second can, making sure it soaked all the soft furnishings.

Out into the hallway. The third can sprayed the floor, walls and doorway. He finished it off on the stairwell.

Lighting the first match, he held it up, watching the flame dance orange and bright. He let it burn halfway down before throwing it. The match hit the floral stair runner and ignited. He stood watching as the flame, found its rhythm, and danced a graceful Bolero. He retraced his steps, throwing a second match into the TV room, the contents igniting upon impact.

He had to be quick now, the stairs were beginning to take hold, as the house filled with the sound of the crackling of timber and the whoosh of the ravenous flames as they engulfed everything in their path.

Back to the kitchen-diner, the intense heat of the fire creating a sweatbox. Malkie fought the reflex to cough, as the noxious fumes suffocated any oxygen pockets. He reached for the patio door, opened it, and stepped outside, sucking in a lungful of breath in-between retching and coughing. He looked up, orange flames licked at the bedroom’s timber window frame.

Lighting the third match, he executed an under arm lob, his eyes followed it as it cut through the night air. It hit the table, flames whipping on impact. He stumbled back, scorching heat lashing at his face and hands. He kicked the patio door shut, the UPVC frame twisting and grotesque as it deformed. He took a second to catch his breath, mesmerised, a cacophony of red, yellow and orange acrobatics.

No way Edwards is making it out. He slipped back through the hedge, sprinting across the green.

Frank was already in the car, engine running, ready for the off.

Elated, Malkie smacked his fist twice on the car roof. ‘See that Frank, now it’s done. Now we rule, no negotiation, no exceptions.’

Frank, unable to share the sentiment, watched as the apex of the roof disintegrated, folding, then caving in. The sound of sirens in the distance, that was their cue to get out of there. Frank hit the gas, shards of gravel flying in all directions.

Navigating the country lanes at speed, the sirens dissipated as he accelerated into the blackness. Two miles in, he turned off down a country farm track, a dilapidated mixture of outhouses and barns greeted their arrival.

Malkie alighted the vehicle, and jogged to the nearest barn twenty yards away. Inside, a clean getaway car, prepped and ready.

Frank drove forward onto a boggy field, and jumped out of the car, the crimson glow on the horizon nagged at his conscience. He ignored it. Moving to the rear of the vehicle, he retrieved another jerry can from the boot, he opened the rear passenger door, and sprayed the contents over the upholstered interior. He did the same to the front, and then worked his way round the outside, making sure the doors, sills, roof and bonnet received an equal dousing.

Malkie was standing beside him now, changed from the hardware store blue boiler suit and workman boots that could place him at the scene. Bagged up, he tossed the contents onto the back seat of the Sierra Cosworth. No trace, no evidence, no comebacks.

‘Safer to let them burn with the car,’ he said. ‘We get pulled, be difficult trying to explain that one to the police.’

Frank nodded his head, keeping his eyes fixed on the blood-red sky flickering in the distance. He released the petrol cap, stuffing a rag into the top of the aperture. Malkie made his way to the replacement vehicle, a Volkswagen Golf, boosted two days before. False plates and a fresh paint job disguised any claim to previous ownership.

Frank lit the taper, he set it inside the rag, and sprinted away. Twenty paces out, the Ford exploded, the blast knocked Frank to the ground. He jumped to his feet, and leapt into the Golf. The tyres ripped into the dirt track as they sped away into the breaking dawn.

13

The next day, local news broke the story. Police remained tight-lipped. Unnamed sources close to the investigation said the good money was on arson. Unconfirmed reports suggested the remains of two charred bodies were recovered from the scene.

Frank’s stomach lurched, he moved closer to the radio, turning the bulletin up. He had a bad feeling where it was leading. Edwards was supposed to be alone. Reports speculating two bodies found at the scene appeared to be a female adult and child. Forget arson. That meant homicide, double murder. Life imprisonment.

Frank grabbed the phone from its cradle, punched in the number. Malkie picked up on the third warble. ‘You best turn the radio on.’

He’d been expecting the call. His voice resigned and flat. ‘No need, I’m watching it on TV, local news reporting from the scene.’

‘This is fucked...we’re fucked, you any...’

Frank was entitled to vent but not like this. Malkie’s voice became harsh, ‘not on the phone, usual place, half an hour.’

The tell-tale click of the receiver told Frank the conversation was done with.

Frank leaned forward in his chair, and cupped his hands to his face. Malkie had fucked up and he’d followed. He might not have set the fire but he carried equal blame. He prayed to God the reporters had it all wrong.

Malkie was waiting at the rendezvous point, a service station just off junction three of the M6. Frank recognised the Merc. He drove past, checking his mirrors. The police were bound to be onto them. He drove round twice, acting as though he was looking for a decent parking space for his Shogun Sport four-wheel drive. Satisfied, he parked a hundred yards away. He hurried across the parking lot, head down against the wind and rain. He made his way inside, and stood at the WH Smith newspaper stall. He picked up one of the red top tabloids, leafed through it, looking for something of worth. Malkie joined him, he reached for another title, and thumbed his way through. He kept his eyes fixed forward. Just another punter.

‘Need to hold your nerve Frank, know better than to phone me.’

‘Double murder...the fuck did that happen?’

‘Nothing’s changed, stick to the plan.’

‘Wife and kid Malkie, and you say nothing’s changed?’

‘Speculation, Frank.’

‘What, you need to hear it from the police before it’s real?’

‘So what if it is?’

‘Civilians, remember.’

‘I say it’s collateral damage.’

‘Eleven-year-old girl, collateral. You taking the piss?’

‘Edwards knew the life, and yet he still took the risk. His choice. Could have walked away. He chose to make a stand. You want me to send flowers, that it?’

Frank eyed him, the anger rising within, fighting the urge to throttle the life from Malkie. He let the rage subside. He knew better than to antagonise the boss.

‘Just don’t sit right...being a child killer.’

‘Fuck that. You wanna get sentimental, best convert, go Catholic. Unburden yourself to some kiddie-fiddler priest, but I don’t wanna hear about any of this shit again.’

Frank took a deep intake of breath, and held it before answering. ‘So what now?’

‘We wait. Let Edwards make his move. Then we finish it. Meantime, I need a drink, you joining me?’

Malkie took a sip, scanning the room, enjoying the reassuring burn at the back of his throat. ‘Like I said, collateral damage. Fuck all we can do now. Shit happens.’

‘And the police, how we handling that?’

Malkie drained the remnants of the Bush Mills, sticking his hand in the air for another. ‘Alibi’s solid, the cops got nothing. So what if they come and speak to us? Be disappointed if they don’t. Just hold it together, Frank. Let them come. When they’re done, Edwards will make his play.’

‘You reckon?’

‘Wouldn’t you? Wife and kiddie gone like that. He won’t be thinking straight, bound to make mistakes. He wants Closure Frank. No two ways about it. He’s coming. He’s hurting so bad right now, I can almost taste his pain, and I’m liking that.’

‘So how we doing this?’

‘You let me worry about that.’

‘You got it all worked out then Malkie, huh?’

‘I’ve been waiting on this for a long time. It’s personal. I took his business, then his family. Fucked with his head and his finances. He can’t let go. It’s eating him from the inside, and now, I finally got that fucker right where I want him.’

‘When, how?’

‘Man’s gotta make a statement, be the Kings. If nothing else he’s gotta save face. What better way than to take me out in my own home?’

‘Why wait? Let’s take the fight to him. Better still I go, that way you maintain your distance. Or we contract out - finish it clean.’

‘Where’s the fun in that, Frank? You heard anything I said? This is personal. I want the bastard on his knees begging me to end it.’

Frank stared into the bottom of his glass, silent. Burning questions tearing into him, had Malkie known all along that Edwards wasn’t even there, just his wife and daughter? The thought brought the bile to the back of his throat. He knew Malkie was a cold bastard, but this was different. Demented. He didn’t want any part of it. He felt tainted, lied to, complicit in the murder of woman and child. Not what he’d signed up for. No way.

The police came and hauled in Malkie and Frank for questioning, both of them released without charge twenty-four hours later. Both alibis held up to scrutiny. Police knew damned well Malkie Thompson was behind the attack, just couldn’t prove it – not yet.

14

Edwards drained his last dregs of bourbon, it helped numb the pain but couldn’t block it out. Didn’t matter what happened now, everything, all he’d ever loved - gone.

He dabbed at the corner of his eye as the image of his daughter, Lila - a happy and smiley eight year old, came to mind. She’d known nothing of her father’s business. An innocent, caught up in a vile and unprecedented gangland turf war. As for his wife Laura, she knew to some extent, but chose not to ask too many questions. She even turned a blind eye to Vinnie’s extra curricular activities with Tanya. Deep down she knew, at the end of the day, it was her and Lila that mattered most.

Vinnie relived the nightmare on replay each night, haunted by his daughter’s voice screaming Daddy help, help me please. His wife’s tortured expression, as silent tears streamed down her face, the flames licking at her nightdress.

Despite his many faults, Vinnie Edwards had doted on his daughter, and for that alone Malkie Thompson would come to understand the true meaning of suffering.

The Glaswegian and his organisation had been running wild like a pack of rabid dogs, now it was time to round them up and dispose of them once and for all.

Vinnie couldn’t bring his family back, but he could go some way to getting even.

15

Seventeen Days Later

Malkie had been questioned twice, released both times without charge. He’d even instructed the police to pass his condolences onto Vinnie Edwards, and to make matters worse, sent a bouquet of flowers to the dual funeral of mother and daughter.

Edwards had gone to ground. No one on the street spoke his name. Heightened fear of incurring the wrath of the prime suspect ensured silence.

Each night, Frank slept downstairs at the Kings Retreat, waiting for something or anything. His mind alert to every sound, but still nothing. Part of him wanted to believe Edwards was gone, instinct told him different.

He squinted at the clock on the wall 3:10am. He didn’t know what had woken him this time, was it a sound or a feeling? Whatever it was, he couldn’t put his finger on it. He reached for his gun, having taken to sleeping with it every night since the fire. He checked the load and chamber of the .38 handgun.

He was in two minds whether to roll over and try to get back to sleep, but the nagging thought wouldn’t leave him. Frank got up and made his way to the door, listening hard. Nothing, just his over-active imagination, too old for this shit, Frank.

He turned to go back to his makeshift bed, comprising of duvet, pillows and inadequate padding that passed for a mattress, his back aching at the prospect of hunkering down again. But there it was, definite this time, Malkie’s voice. It wasn’t raised, his tone level, but the broad Glaswegian accent unmistakable.

Must be talking in his sleep again. Frank opened the door, standing at the foot of the stairs, this time - another voice for sure.

Frank crept up the stairs, careful to avoid the burglar step three rungs up. He kept his gun trained on the landing. Reaching the top, he paused - the breath caught in his chest, he listened. There it was again, definite this time. Two distinct accents, one Malkie’s, the other unknown.

Frank remained stationary, kept his weapon trained on the door. This time it was clear enough to decipher, as both voices raised in argument. He recognised Edwards, his dialogue slurred. Malkie taunting him. Telling him they died slow. Flames eating them alive, screams penetrating the night air.

Edwards let out his own scream, like nothing Frank had heard before, a tortured banshee.

Frank lunged for the bedroom door. Edwards pulled the trigger. Frank caught the muzzle flash, the shot ricocheting off the headboard, the bullet embedded in the chest of drawers.

His eyes darted to Malkie. He was still alive. Motionless, laughing, continuing to mock Edwards. ‘Can’t even shoot straight, wanna go easy on the booze. You gotta do this right, this is for them. Come on. Take aim, pull the trigger. Last chance, dickhead.’

A mixture of tears and snot streamed down Vinnie’s face. ‘Bastard...fucking sick bastard,’ he said, moving forward trying to find his target.

Malkie taunted some more. ‘Do it now - come on, shoot me, useless fucking prick. ’

Edwards raised the gun, he was calm. No more tears. This was for them – his wife, his daughter, his last act.

Malkie looked on defiant, raising his arms out to the side, embracing martyrdom.

Frank dived as if he were reaching the Murrayfield touchline, at the same time he pulled the trigger of his .38 twice. The first round slammed into Edwards’ ribs. The second catching him somewhere lower in the gut. The impact of the first bullet enough to force him to crumple as Frank’s bulk ploughed into him, bringing him down hard.

Malkie burst into laughter, Frank couldn’t work out if it was shock or relief. ‘Took your time there, Frankie, hoping he was gonna finish me off, eh?’

16

Frank pulled himself to his feet. His eyes remained fixed on Edwards as he lay writhing on the floor, gasping his last couple of breaths. Frank’s bullet finding his lung, leaving Edwards choking, and drowning in his own blood.

Malkie sauntered over, in no particular rush to put an end to the proceedings. ‘Well, well Vinnie boy, looks like you’re well and truly fucked, doesn’t it, eh?’

Straddling his body, Malkie pulled him up by his shirt collar. ‘You really thought you could take me on?’

Edwards tried to answer, his words swamped in blood, as his eyes glazed over.

Malkie slapped his face. ‘I say when you get to die.’

Frank retrieved Edwards’ gun from the floor, a .45 US Army import and passed it to Malkie.

Malkie admired the workmanship. ‘Nice hardware, wasted on you though.’

Frank stood at the window observing the street, all quiet, but it wouldn’t stay that way for long. ‘Malkie, we got to get this done, getting light out there.’

‘I hear you Frank.’ Malkie forced the barrel inside Edwards’ mouth. ‘Be sure to say hello to the family for me.’ He pulled the trigger once, letting the lifeless corpse slump back to the floor.

Epilogue

In the days that followed Malkie’s firm went about cementing their grip on all of Edwards’ former territories. Not that there was much resistance. The locals and the supposed rivals soon came to realise, Thompson was indeed the undisputed boss, and as such had a license to reign supreme.

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About the Author

Mark J. Newman is a UK based Crime/Thriller writer. He lives in the Midlands and enjoys taking his dogs for long walks, allowing his mind to wander to the dark side, dreaming up gritty crime thrillers for readers to enjoy.

He uses his own and others experiences to help craft his stories. Having previously worked as a police photographer and a prison tutor he has a tome of stories just waiting to put out there.

His stories are a successful mixture, combining fact and fiction, allowing Newman to delve into the world of both the investigator and the perpetrator, to deliver fast paced edge of the seat genre fiction.

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Also by Mark J Newman

The Crime Syndicate Series

Book 1 VIOLENCE IN THE BLOOD

Book 2 IN FOR THE KILL

Book 3 WALK AMONGST THE DEAD

Book 4 A CALL TO VENGEANCE

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The Crime Syndicate Collection

Standalone British Crime Thriller

PAID IN FULL

Short-Story

Thriller Shots - Murder Mystery Suspense

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IN FOR THE KILL

CRIME SYNDICATE BOOK 2 (EXTRACT)

CHAPTER 1: NEWCASTLE 1987

Baxter thumbed through his winnings, a wedge of used crumpled tens and twenties bound together with an elastic band. Dog-eared and tatty or crisp and clean, it made no difference cash was cash. He stuffed the wad into the inside pocket of his leather jacket and zipped it up. It had been a long time coming but winning felt good.

He looked up; a small crowd had gathered ten feet from where he was standing. Local faces, associates of Callaghan. They were huddled together talking in low tones, muttering into their warm beer. If looks could kill...

He caught their eye, not that it had been his intention to do so, but it happened all the same. His inner voice yelling at him to get out of there, but he couldn’t help but linger a moment longer. He wasn’t one to gloat but then again he was entitled to enjoy the moment. He returned their disgruntled stare, a broad smile breaking out onto his face. He felt their pain; of late, he’d been there more times than he cared to remember. Some of them had lost big tonight, and over the last three months, Baxter had lost more than he could account for. Tonight that had changed. Something was different. He’d turned a corner, putting an end to his bad run. That’s how it is; bad luck comes and goes, the law of averages. He’d finally broken the cycle.

Six grand in total, not bad for an evening’s work. He’d rode his luck but he’d kept his nerve, believing it would all come good in the end. Half way through the night, things hadn’t looked so good; at worst he was down by two and half grand. He went to Callaghan, the bout’s organiser and kingpin of the northeast’s criminal fraternity. He needed a short-term loan, just to get him through to the last bout. How could Callaghan say no? Baxter was a regular, and he was only too glad to authorise his credit. Besides, Baxter was a safe bet, he’d never missed a deadline. He understood the terms well enough, you don’t pay on time, we cut you. You miss a second payment, we take your fingers. Miss a third, we discuss repayment options with your family.

Each party understood the expectations. There could be no misunderstanding.

CHAPTER 2

Although it wasn’t a fortune, Baxter’s win ensured that he could pay what he owed and keep Callaghan off his back, leaving a little left over. He still needed to get his head straight. He’d considered counselling, but his line of work wasn’t the easiest subject matter to discuss with civilians, this was down to him and him alone. He felt bereft; nothing he did could shake the memory. The girl’s face haunted him, ingrained on his brain, when he closed his eyes – she was there. Things had become so bad he’d begun to hallucinate. When driving the car, he’d see her at the side of the road or she’d be sitting on the back seat when he checked his rear view mirror. It was the same in his apartment, when he tried to watch the TV; he’d see her out of the corner of his eye, just sitting in the armchair watching him intently. She never spoke, always silent, her eyes imploring him to act.

Sleep didn’t come easy; he’d begun self-medicating just so he could catch a fragmented couple of hours here and there. He ignored the pharmacist’s warnings about the dangers of mixing his medication. What did they know? He knew his own body better than anyone. Besides, he took them as guidelines more than instructions. He knew what he could and couldn’t handle.

He’d gotten into the habit of concocting his own sleep recipe. Each night, he’d take a triple shot of brandy, crush a Nytol sleeping pill into it, and then add paracetamol, his own method to combat the hangover effects of the morning after. The difficulty was coming round, trying to rouse himself from sleep. He’d devised a regime to shock his body into action. First, he took a two-minute cold shower, followed by three cups of strong, black coffee. Then he’d go for a run, nothing too strenuous, a mile jog. If the coffee rush kicked in, then he could push it to a mile and a half. On his return, he’d perform twenty reps of crunches followed by press-ups then squats before taking a hot shower. It wasn’t fool proof, but it worked for the most part. Anything was better than waking up each day feeling as if he’d been given a double dose of Rohypnol.

Ever since the McAlister job he’d been functioning on autopilot, before the win he’d gambled his savings down to nothing. He’d borrowed even from those he’d vowed never to ask, it was all part of his coping mechanism, gambling helped him to forget. Sure, he had to get it in order, he knew that. He kept telling himself it was just a short-term solution. Anything to dull the memory. Take each day as it comes.

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WALK AMONGST THE DEAD

CRIME SYNDICATE BOOK 3 (EXTRACT)

CHAPTER 1: AUGUST 2016

It’s taken months of planning, and now he’s at the point of no return. Another piece of the jigsaw about to slot into place.

He’s standing outside, his baseball cap drawn close over his face, obscuring his features, enough to confuse the CCTV footage. He knows it’s important not to loiter, he needs to blend in, can’t risk drawing attention to himself. To the untrained eye, he’s just another ordinary Joe, an everyday kind of guy. Disguised, kitted out from head to toe; boiler suit, cap, and boots. He could be a tradesman, or a courier, but take a closer look and you’ll see he’s not alone. The nondescript unliveried white transit van parked opposite contains another figure – waiting on the call.

The old man’s looking up from his morning paper, The Times, a dedicated reader for more than forty years. He looks forward to Sundays, and the return of the broadsheet, he prefers the traditional to the new fangled, supposedly easy to handle, Berliner format. He reads it cover to cover, scanning each of the supplements, ritualistic like taking elevenses. There’s satisfaction in understanding the expectations. But that’s about to change.

Putting his paper down, glasses perched on the end of his nose. Disgruntled at the unscheduled interruption, he glares at the figure silhouetted in the doorway.

The figure steps forward. The old man recognises the face, unexpected as it is. Smiling eyes, cold heart – he’s come to collect.

The old man’s slow to realise the intention. His inquisitive eyes staring back at the figure, scanning from head to toe, looking for a sign, looking for anything untoward.

The figure hides his intention well. No cause for concern. No alarm bells ringing. But they should be. This is no ordinary collection.

The old man’s name is Walter Browne, the firm’s accountant, hand-picked for the role by Malkie Thompson way back in 1988. Walter keeps the organisation’s dealings below the radar. Makes sure the legit money washes through the bad. He’s well rewarded for his expertise, his loyalty and silence taken as a given, relics from a bygone age.

To the anonymous figure, Walter Browne and his ilk belong in the past. The market’s evolved and moved on. They don’t realise it yet, but he does. There’s no room for sentiment, can’t afford to be complacent.

Learnt that from Malkie, now he’s putting it in to practise.

The ever-growing influx of foreigners moving in on their territory means existing agreements are resigned to the scrap heap. It's a young man’s game; no compromise. It’s about strength. Malkie doesn’t get that, he prefers to negotiate. These newcomers won’t hesitate. Malkie might be willing to concede ground to avert a war, but he’s not.

Strength equals power. That’s the real currency. Winner takes all.

He knows how to deal with their sort, paths already crossed—way back, those heady, club days, pre-millennium. Back then, it was the Kosovar Albanians trying to get a foothold. Now it’s a lottery: Poles, Romanians, and Bulgarians. Take your pick, they’re all lining up, waiting for the right opportunity.

He’s tired of waiting for the green light, can’t put it off any longer. Affirmative action is needed. Business is business. The only way to survive is to fight fire with fire. He’s been running the operation for the last six months. He could have cherry picked, but he chose not to. It’s all about perception, important to send out a clear message, no room for misinterpretation. He needed to prove he was capable, solid, and reliable. An all-rounder, a safe pair of hands, someone who could handle the pressure, day to day.

Seventeen years, he’s kept his own counsel. Paid his dues, observed protocol, kicked up to Malkie the whole time. Those days are done. Enough of the penance and bullshit for past wrongs, it’s time to step out from the shadows.

CHAPTER 2

Today’s the start of a new beginning, a changing of the guard. Queensberry rules no longer apply, only in the minds of ageing gangsters keen to romanticise the past. It’s guerrilla warfare; and he knows how to play it. Hit hard and fast, fight for every inch of ground. He’ll drive them out street-by-street if needs be, no compromise, no mercy.

The whispers started over a year ago, but not one of them has ever had the balls to go public. It’s time to get it out in the open. Malkie Thompson’s had his time. His best days are behind him now. Old age hasn’t been kind to him; he thinks he hides the illness well, but he doesn’t. He’s physically weak, they all know it, and more to the point the opposition knows it. Malkie’s headstrong, always has been, desperate to hang onto power. His pride outweighing common sense. He only has himself to blame. The wolves are circling.

The figure’s breaking the silence now, content to have let the old man sweat for long enough.

He takes a step closer to the desk. ‘Been a long time, Walter.’

The old man clears his throat. ‘Indeed, but no Malkie? Not like him to miss an opportunity for a dram,’ he says, gesturing with his hand to the quarter full bottle of malt sitting on the desk.

‘Little early in the day for me, but you go ahead. Malkie sends his apologies by the way. Not himself these past few months.’

‘Ah...yes of course. How is he?’

‘You know how it is... He’s getting by.’

Walter Browne’s, weighing it all up. He has that tingling sensation at the back of his left eye, the kind he gets when he’s nervous. ‘I see, so... What can I do for you?’

‘Got a problem I need your help with. Keep coming up against a brick wall. You know me, Walt, I’m all about solutions.’

Walter shifts in his chair, leaning forward, still looking down through his glasses on the edge of his nose. ‘Okay, I’m listening,’ he says, trying to make out he’s relaxed. Feeling his chest tighten a little, he disguises the discomfort with a sudden intake of breath by placing a hand to his mouth, and feigning a cough. ‘Damned dry cough can’t seem to shift it.’

The figure smiles back at him. ‘Need to take better care of yourself, man of your age.’ He begins moving around the small office, taking his time to stop and read the various wall adornments, fellowship to the Institute of Chartered Accountants in England and Wales, and a scroll awarding Freedom of the City. ‘I keep hearing things, Walt, rumours,’ he says, stopping at the photo of a couple, Walter and his wife at a black tie charity event. ‘I remember this one. Acted as Malkie’s chauffeur for the evening.’ He removes it from the wall, and scrutinises it up close. ‘Quite a night as I recall. How is Mrs. B these days?’

Walter follows every movement, suspicion a tumorous growth. ‘She’s fine – thank you.’

‘Good to hear.’ His face a mask, wearing his best fake sinister plastic smile. ‘I’ll have to make a point of calling in on her.’

‘Yes, I’ll...’ Walter doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

‘First things first, I need answers. You know how it is, I got to separate the bullshit from fact,’ he says, still analysing the photo-frame. ‘So I say to myself, easier to go straight to the source.’

Walter’s caught off guard, his mind slicing through the veiled threat to his wife. ‘I don’t follow.’

‘Truth is I’ve let it go for too long... Far too long. Let the past blind my judgement.’ He pauses, averting his eyes from the photograph to face Walter, further unsettling the old man. ‘Good looking woman your wife.’

Walter can feel the anger rising within, like an irritation; he knows he has to contain it. ‘What exactly is it you...?’

He interrupts, picking up the bottle of malt from the desk. ‘Enjoy a drop of the hard stuff, Walt.’ A statement more than a question. He takes his time to read the label aloud. ‘Glenmorangie single malt whisky, Malkie’s preferred brand. I guess some can handle it, and some can’t.’ His eyes burn in to Walter, ‘How about you, Walt, can you handle it?’

Walter shifts uncomfortably in his seat, his cheeks flushing red. ‘What are you insinuating?’

‘Booze, Walter, loosens the tongue. Causes some people to run off at the mouth.’

Fear’s taken hold, Walter’s eyes are dilated, his heartbeat ramped up. He tries to speak, to refute the allegation, but his throat’s too dry to respond. His brain in overdrive, he needs an answer, his mind a blank canvas as panic sets in, consuming all hope of rational thought.

‘You see, Walter, clandestine meetings with the opposition that’s never a smart move.’ He lets the words hang for effect.

‘At first, I said no, can’t be, not Walter. I wouldn’t have it. Not a word of it. Been with us since the beginning, I said. Even slapped one of my own blokes for delivering the message. Had to go and visit him in hospital, make things right. Got daggers and the silent treatment from his missus the whole time I was there.’ He pauses again, his eyes drilling down to the old man’s core.

Walter stares back, silent and paralysed—rooted to the spot.

The figure moves in, and looms over the old man. He places both hands on the desk, resting on his knuckles, his head jutting forward like a dominant silverback. ‘See, they said you were a grass, Walter, I mean you a grass? On the turn in his old age, they said. I told ’em no way, not my Walter. Stand up bloke. A real gent, proper diamond. Then I got to thinking, these last sixth months, jobs going wrong, blokes getting lifted. That drop that never happened. Money disappearing. And that was it, my epiphany—clear as day. Crystal. But I needed to be sure. I even put a tail on you, Walter, real Columbo kind of stuff.’

Walter tried to stand, his legs shaky. ‘I think I...’

The figure raises a hand; palm outstretched flat, just enough to silence him. Beaten, the old man slumps down into his high back swivel chair, the springs grinding and protesting under his weight.

The figure’s pacing now, his voice taut with tension. ‘So here it is, the dilemma, why would Walter Browne - Company Accountant, career unblemished, try to fuck us over?’

Walter knows he’s in the shit, and he needs to act fast. ‘If you just let...’

‘Poles,’ his voice cranked up to full rant. ‘It’s bad enough Malkie keeps that fucking half-breed Mayer on the payroll. But you’ve gone above and beyond.’

Fears gaining the upper hand, Walter’s eyes darting left to right, desperate for an escape route.

He’s inches from Walter’s face, so close he can smell his fear. He stands upright, then sweeps back down, slamming his fist, smashing it into the desk, sending papers scattering to the floor. A Styrofoam cup empties its murky brown lukewarm coffee onto the desktop. It’s pure theatre, the final outcome determined weeks ago.

The figure breathes deep, sucking in the air through gritted teeth. ‘Why…? Make me understand. Thought we’d never find out, is that what this is?’

He steps back from the desk, putting his hand through his hair, regaining his composure. ‘So what am I to do, Walt? Tell me, what would you do in my position?’

Walter splutters, trying but failing to mumble some sort of coherent response. ‘I’m sure we can wo...’

The figure raises a finger to his lips. ‘Not another word.’

The terror’s audible in the old man’s high-pitched whine. ‘Look, I can explain...go to Malkie myself.’

‘Doesn’t work like that. Here’s my problem, either you’ve got dementia, or you’re playing both sides, hedging your bets. Am I right?

He doesn’t give Walter time to answer. ‘This is about you trying to save your own arse, correct? Either way, you’ve screwed us over.’

Walter reaches for the Styrofoam cup, ditches the coffee dregs into the waste paper basket and tips the whisky in, draining the bottle, then necks it in one generous draught. The slow burn in his mouth helping to steady his nerves. Walter knows he has to tread carefully, to separate truth from fiction, to calculate how much the figure really knows. Years of experience can’t stop a solitary cold bead of sweat gliding down the side of his forehead, belying his inner emotions.

The whisky glow provides small comfort. He’s straining his voice to fake authority. ‘I’ve heard enough, we’re done here. I’m not explaining myself to you. I’ll talk direct to Malkie, not the errand boy.’

The figure beams, delighted to have rattled the old man.

Walter opens the bottom drawer to his walnut desk, reaching inside.

He’s watching, hawk like, ready to anticipate any sudden moves. He could be reaching for a weapon. But this is Walter Browne, he’s never touched a gun in his life. Walter places the hip flask on the desk, his eyes defiant. He takes a nip, then follows with another. His face turning to a twisted, blotchy red mess as he struggles to steady his nerves and contain his temper.

‘Tainted...never be the top man. You’ve a lot to learn. Not all flash cars and designer clothes. It’s about cultivating relationships.

The figure paces back and forth, content to let the old man vent.

‘Longevity, that’s what’s important, not chasing a fast buck. That’s what it takes to survive and prosper. Malkie understood that, do you? I doubt it. Prancing in here making out you’re doing his bidding. I don’t believe a word of it. Go on get out of it.’

Smiling, the figure picks up the phone, a retro black Bakelite design, he dials the number, looking straight into Walter’s eyes. Two more digits to make the connection.

Walter returns his stare, his Adams apple bobbing up and down like a yoyo. ‘You see, Walter, it’s all about a retirement plan for you...and Malkie.’

Walter takes another swig. His words splutter out. ‘Retirement?’

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A CALL TO VENGEANCE

CRIME SYNDICATE BOOK 4 (EXTRACT)

WELCOME TO THE CRIME SYNDICATE

Malkie Thompson’s spent 25 years at the top of his game, but things are changing, and changing fast.

Jason Cunningham, his nephew, wants his crown. Question is how far’s he willing to go? In truth it’s a rhetorical question, Malkie’s got the answer, he’s always had it, damn sure Cunningham will do whatever’s required. He’s taught him well — too well.

To some he’s the natural heir, to others he’s little more than a pariah. Given the chance George Patterson would have offed him in the blink of an eye, but Malkie stopped him, a decision he may yet come to regret.

Malkie’s sent George on his way, no point in them both waiting for the end. By now he’s heading south, least that’s the plan.

He’s sitting, poised, his gun pointing towards the door. Whatever’s coming, he’s ready. One thing’s for sure, ain’t going down without a fight.

His hand’s reaching for the shoulder, dabbing at the wound, from the bullet that was meant to kill. Fresh blood oozing out as fingers prod beneath the makeshift dressing.

There are those that think he’s already dead, and for now he’s content to let them have their day.

His eyes drift to the shadows, the would-be assassin’s corpse lying in situ, as the image of Mimi’s corpse burns ever deeper into his retina, slain by those that would do him wrong.

Word is Jason Cunningham ordered the botched hit, but the question remains, who’s he working with?

Soon they’ll come to realise Malkie Thompson’s far from done.

* * *

CHAPTER 1

He’s lying there waiting for the inevitable. Too old for this George. He closes his eyes, had a good run, gotta end sometime. He lets his mind drift, welcoming the end.

His eye lids snap open as a fresh spike of pain hits him like a speeding train, fucking razor wire. He reaches down to inspect the damage, a mixture of mud and bloodied lacerated flesh exposing the muscle and sinew. If they don’t get to him first he’s damn sure the infection will finish the job for them. Nature will do the rest. The legend of George Patterson reduced to crow carrion.

Can’t just sit here waiting to die. He rolls over onto his belly, trying to manoeuvre, elbows and forearms acting as leverage, drawing up his good leg in support.

On his feet, chest pumping like a pneumatic drill. His eyes cast skyward, indigo blue filled with shades of cobalt grey. Knows he’ll be easy to spot now. Needs to keep to the tree line. His body soaked to the core, joints stiff. Every fibre aching, screaming defeat.

Could have ended it back there, crawled out of the mud on his hands and knees. Put himself at their mercy. Knows for sure how that would have ended, him kneeling down, eyes closed, waiting for the bullet to call last orders.

He shakes his head, tells himself it’s just fatigue playing with his mind. Too little sleep over the past few days. Losing track of time, thinking hard to remind himself what day of the week it is. Can’t recall when he last ate, or when he last took a piss. Can’t be good for his bladder, or his prostate. The notion brings a smile to his face, the ageing process wreaking havoc with his body.

His stomach’s rumbling now, sounds like a knackered waste pipe. When did he last eat? Thinks it was some time in the last twelve hours, can’t be sure. More important things to worry about. Got to keep his strength up. If he makes it, there’s a long drive ahead, he needs to be alert, can’t be dozing off at the wheel. George makes a mental note to get himself a clutch of those energy drinks, what is it they call it? They’ve all got weird names these days. Monster, or some stupid shit like that. What kind of name for a drink is that, anyway? Doesn’t matter as long as it keeps him from sleeping at the wheel.

His eyes cast down to his lower leg, who’s he kidding? He can just about walk. His leg’s burning, an inferno of pain, be lucky if he doesn’t succumb to infection. He wipes at his brow, dizziness and nausea cascading through his body.

Gotta keep moving George. Keep…

Bile gathering in the rear of his throat, he spits the yellowed substance to the sodden mud. The wind’s getting up, blowing southwards in his direction. He’s got to keep on. Wincing against the pain, he drags himself forwards. The burning surge suffocates the oxygen from his lungs. George bites down on his lip to stifle the groan.

He casts his eyes across the open field, scanning the horizon. Checking his watch, 7:22am. He’s listening, positive he can hear the burr of the carriageway, early morning commuters scurrying about their business. He trudges on across the open ploughed field, breathless and close to broken.

George stumbles into the service area periphery. He stops and props himself against a large orange recycling container. He takes a moment to scan the scene, blocking out the pain as the gentle breeze whips at his lacerated wounds.

He’s waiting for the right opportunity, a good samaritan, anything. The state he’s in, looking like an AWOL extra from a zombie flick, be lucky if Mother Teresa stopped to offer help.

Picking up the pace, heading for the red and white livery of the Esso service station, less than fifty metres away. His breathing, laboured and ragged as rapid quick fire palpitations strike like the repetition of a snare drum. He ignores it and presses on.

To his right there’s a disused Little Chef restaurant, a hangover from the late nineties. A hundred metres further down a Premier Inn sits prominent over on the right side of the forecourt. There’s got to be close to a dozen cars, an array of saloons and hatchbacks. His eyes fix on the Jaguar and the Mercedes.

First, he’s got to get cleaned up and take a proper look at the wound. See what he can do to dress it, doubts he’ll find TCP or any other form of antiseptic. May even have to get creative and opt for the industrial floor cleaning bleach.

Keep moving George. He stays low, sticking inside the perimeter fence, the shrubbery his cover. His eyes flit left then right, got to be a drivers washroom. He checks for security cameras, but sees nothing. He limps across the service road, grimacing with every step. Where’s that bastard door?

The sound of a foreign dialect brings him to an abrupt halt as a waft of cigarette smoke fills his lungs. George stops dead, his body pressed to the edge of the wall. He inches to the corner and risks a look. Two guys chatting, one small and squat aged around fifty, only five six in height. The other, leaner and taller. George guesses he’s thirty-five or thirty-six, both devouring the last of their cigarettes, readying to move.  George reaches a hand around to the rear of his waistband, pulling out the Browning. No time for niceties, he needs to clean up before boosting a car. He tells himself it’s a precaution, but if it comes down to it, he won’t hesitate to pull the trigger.

One, two, three, he strides out from the wall; the 9 mm raised to waist level but they’re already gone. Shit.

George limps the remaining five steps to the blue steel door, he opens it, sliding in as best he can, careful not to knock his leg. The smell of fresh bleach burns at the back of his oesophagus. A small yellow sign sits prominent on top of terracotta tiles just inside the doorway. It reads: CLEANING IN PROGRESS.

At the far end of the corridor a grey cleaning caddy’s parked up, nestled between the GENTS and a nondescript store cupboard. George waits a second listening for any telltale signs that the owner is close by. Nothing bar the sound of someone choking the life out of a crappy 80s’ pop song he’s long since forgotten.

George makes for the GENTS, he stops at the caddy and lifts a bottle of industrial detergent and what passes for a nearly new J-Cloth type rag. Less than ideal, but it’ll do. He pushes on through the door, confronted by a fog of dense humid steam sticking to him like clingfilm. He shuffles in, visibility near zero, he follows the out of tune rendition. Be a mercy killing to silence this guy.

9 mm in hand, his leg grating against uneven tiles, sending a tremor to the pit of his stomach. Cussing under his breath, George does his best to ignore the pain. All the time moving, the Browning sweeping in an arc, his leg playing catchup.

The would-be Barry Manilow must be taking a break. The only sound now, water pounding off the tiled floor. George snaps his head left to right. His eyes squinting against the wall of fog - nothing. Shivers rack his body from top to toe, threatening shut down. He forces it from his mind. Come on George. He presses on, his jaw clamping down tight onto his tongue, disguising the giveaway rattle.

He spots a burgundy sports holdall on the bench. Checks all around before moving towards it. He opens it, working his way through the layers, pulls out a pair of dark blue work jeans, and holds them next to him, a little baggy for his taste but they’ll do. His hands dig deeper, a grey zip up hoody, a pair of dirty old white Nikes’ two sizes too small and wash bag wrapped in a gaudy face towel. He’s in a bad way but still ignores the pair of stained boxer briefs. A man’s got to have standards.

His fingertip search of the toiletry bag produces a roll on anti-perspirant, half used toothpaste and brush, some hair product and a pack of condoms that look as though they’ve taken up permanent residence. Shit. No antiseptic or anything that comes close. He re-zips the wash bag and stuffs the contents back into the holdall and makes for the nearest vacant shower cubicle.

Pelting hot water hitting his face, a mixture of blood and sludge running from his eyes, along the crevices before dripping from his chin. Putting his neck forward, scolding droplets going to work on the knots. Fresh pain exploding like a hornet’s sting in his ruined calf, he can’t put it off any longer, time to clean the wound.

George reaches for the discarded lime green shower gel, a non-branded supermarket rip off. He tips it into his hand and applies it to his lower leg. Most of the grime has washed away leaving ragged strips of skin and tender muscle exposed beneath. He clamps his jaw tight and reaches for the industrial cleaning gel. He squeezes a dollop onto two fingers, applies it in rapid sweeping downward movements. There’s a two-second delay before his brain updates the pain ledger.

Head like a rollercoaster, he’s reaching out with both arms to steady himself, nothing to grab on to, he slumps to the terracotta tiles. Catching his breath now, his vision blurred, waiting for the pain to subside to the rhythmic tap tapping of water jets ricocheting off tiles.

As the burning fades, he pulls himself to his feet, towelling off as best he can, he dresses in the ill-fitting clothes, he’s not going to win or even come close in the fashion stakes but at least they’re dry. He shreds the towel into two strips and applies it as a makeshift field dressing, it’ll do for now.

9 mm in hand, he steps out from the cubicle, time to pay his nearest neighbour a visit. The singing might have stopped, replaced with a jaunty never-ending whistle. So now the guy’s Roger Whittaker.

He lingers as the sound of the bolt slides back. The occupant steps out. Unsuspecting, naked, moving forward blind, his head shrouded inside a towel. Vulnerable - one hand engaged in rubbing hair dry, the other clutching a small black toiletry bag.

George waits for him to get closer. ‘Hello Sweet-pea.’

Shower guy removes the towel from his head. Confusion in his eyes, unable to comprehend the situation - is this a robbery or some darker intent?  George signals with the Browning, ‘over there,’ pointing him towards the bench area.

As he turns, George whips the butt of the 9 mm against the back of his neck, shower guy falls to the floor. George nudges him with the tip of his Nike trainer, checking he’s not faking it. Satisfied that he’s out cold George reaches for the bag and retrieves the keys and wallet.

Time to move. Outside he presses the remote key fob and listens for the telltale double beep. Hazard lights illuminate identifying the vehicle. It’s neither the Jaguar nor the Mercedes. This time around he’ll settle for the Toyota Land Cruiser.

CHAPTER 2

Jarek’s parked up in the black ŠKODA Octavia vRS, the eighteen-inch rims shimmering under the orange glow from the halogen street lamp. He’s not alone, two of his crew are keeping watch. One riding shotgun, the other in the back. Szymon keeps his eyes kerb side. Pietor’s got the jitters, his head snapping left then right. It’s his first outing, and Jarek’s already decided it’ll be his last. He resents having outsiders forced upon him even if he’s related to Stanek Bosko. If Bosko wants feedback, he’ll give it to him straight - the kid won’t make the grade. Pietor’s only nineteen, straight out of school and off the bus from back home. Perhaps a combination of nerves, fatigue and caffeine causing the rush of adrenaline but Jarek knows the truth, the kid’s a pill head, MDMA his preferred drug of choice.

Jarek’s got a lot riding on tonight, a real chance to make his mark, an opportunity to cement his place in Bosko’s inner circle. Having Pietor along for the ride was never part of the plan.

The money’s coming in thick and fast, so good, Jarek’s already booked his flight back to Warsaw at the end of the month. No more scrimping and saving, not like before. Those days are long gone. Bosko was right, this is the land of plenty. The British are soft, too polite. It’s no wonder they’re on the back foot. Not that he’ll shed a tear, they’ll get what they deserve. Their loss, his gain. The money from tonight’s job, a bonus. Enough to book a holiday, not to Poland, screw that. No, got to be somewhere hot, somewhere exotic, maybe the Caribbean.

Jarek eyes Pietor in the rear-view mirror and wonders how much shit he’s got in his system. ‘Out.’

Pietor returns his stare, his face a blanket of confusion. ‘What?’

‘You heard me, get out.’

Pietor remains still.

‘You deaf? Wyjdź, teraz.’

‘I don’t understand. What I do wrong?’

Jarek turns to Szymon sitting alongside him in the passenger seat, verbal communication unnecessary – his eyes say it all.

Szymon alights the vehicle, before Pietor can protest further the rear door’s yanked open, without uttering another word Pietor’s wrenched from the back seat, and thrown into the road.

Szymon’s glowering at him as he writhes on the asphalt. ‘Odpieprz się.’

Jarek glances into the mirror observing the unfolding scene as Pietor scrabbles to his feet, ‘Matka skurwiela.’

Szymon swipes forward grabbing a fistful of Pietor’s hair in his left hand and draws his hammer type fist back ready to unleash fury and redress the insult. Jarek hits the electronic window control, his eyes still fixed on the street view to the front of the car, ‘enough, leave him.’

Szymon’s right fist quivers on the cold night air, he wants to crush Pietor into the ground, but there’s too much at stake. ‘Another time, głowa kutasa.’

Pietor doesn’t need a written invitation as soon as Szymon releases his grip he’s off and away into the darkness.

These past two years Jarek’s been working on and off for Bosko, it’s an arrangement that’s suited them both, but Stanek Bosko is a man of ambition. To the outside world he’s the quiet well-mannered businessman, calm and affable. He’s taken the time to ingratiate himself with the local Godfather Malkie Thompson. Bosko handles the contracts that Thompson’s organisation steer clear from.

There’s another side to Stanek Bosko, the one he keeps under wraps. Jarek’s heard the hushed mutterings about expansion. He’s gleaned enough to know Malkie Thompson’s on his way out. Seems his nephew Jason Cunningham has grown impatient, he’s reached out to Bosko to help make it happen. It’s a risky move, might even cause a turf war, but the potential prize outweighs the risk. Besides, the thought of giving up the split shift at the meat packing warehouse, for Jarek that day can’t come soon enough.

Tonight’s job could be problematic, if it goes wrong, things may escalate within the hour. It’s a follow on from the previous week.

Jarek had made the initial call himself. He turned up unannounced, better to catch people unaware and keep them on the back foot. He played the part of the economic migrant straight off the bus looking for work as a doorman. Jarek walked into an all but empty mid-afternoon bar. The supervisor wasn’t going to argue with the six foot four 250 pound mass standing in front of him. Two minutes later Jarek was sitting down in-front of the manager under the guise of an impromptu interview.

‘Jarek you say, what is that Polish, Romanian or something?’

‘Polish.’

‘So you’ve worked the doors’ before, back in Poland?’

‘I work lot of different places, but yes, I have experience as doorman.’

‘Well, look, this is how it is, we have nothing at the moment but I can see you work out, and you’ve got the frame and bulk, but the question is can you handle yourself?’

‘Handle myself? I do not understand.’

‘Okay. Let me rephrase that. Have you got any military training or close combat self defence experience?’

‘Polish Army, two years. I teach MMA, running club in Warsaw for nine years.’

The manager took a moment to appraise the information. ‘So what made you come in here, it’s not like we’re advertising for staff at the moment?’

‘I need job, I do good job, you hire me I guarantee you get no trouble.’

The manager narrowed his eyes and leant forward, ‘like I said, no current vacancies. You understand?’ Price slowed his words to maximise the effect, ‘THERE IS NO JOB.’

Jarek mirrored his body language and leant forward, resting his tattooed sleeves on the desk, his eyes cold and dark. ‘You should reconsider. It would be good for you, for the club and business, if you give me job.’

Ronnie Price sat back in his chair, a smile forming at the side of his crooked mouth. The Pole was ballsy, and he liked that. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say that sounded like a threat.’

Jarek stared back, his expression blank. Price remained unfazed. He reached for one of the black business cards with the silver typeface and tossed it across the desk to Jarek. ‘You should have a read of that. Google the name on there, see what it comes up with. Better still, ask around, it’s what we call doing your homework.’

Jarek took it, and read it aloud, ‘SMITH’S NITE CLUB & COCKTAIL BAR.’

Price urged him to read on.

Jarek read aloud, ‘RONNIE PRICE, Manager. HOPWELL ENTERTAINMENT GROUP LTD.’

He looked up from the card. ‘So you are Ronnie Price, yes?’

‘That’s exactly who I am.’ Ronnie lurched from sitting to standing in one swift movement, poised and ready, like a viper ready to strike. ‘And I’ll tell you something else son, you’re way out of your league. But come on, this is a wind up right? Malkie sent you in here didn’t he? No wait a second, I’ve got it now, I bet it was Frank. That’s it - he’s well in with you boys isn’t he? Same tribe, and all that.’

Jarek looked on, bemused. ‘I do not understand, I do not know these names.’

Ronnie Price moved within spitting distance of Jarek. ‘No? That’s a pity. I think we’re done here.’

Jarek returned Ronnie’s stare. ‘That is your choice - for me to go?’

‘Damn straight that’s my choice matey.’

‘I wish you to reconsider Mr Price. How do you say in English?  Ah yes, while you still have options.’

Price beamed a malevolent smile as the office door swung open, two heavy set security staff at the ready, gagging for some action.

‘These gentlemen will escort you from the premises, and Jarek, a word of advice, consider your own options.’

Jarek said nothing, just kept his eyes on Price the whole time before turning and letting security think they were escorting him from the site.

Ronnie Price watched as the electronic door closed, then averted his eyes to the security monitors. He followed Jarek’s exit down the corridor then out onto the street. He half expected him to kick off at any moment, but nothing came of it. That unnerved him, there was a self-assured confidence about the Pole. The threat of violence kept in check, just below the surface. He reached for his phone, punched in two digits then stopped. Ronnie told himself he was being stupid, nothing worth bothering Frank with.

Price returned to the resume he’d been reading before the interruption. He familiarised himself with the detail, his eyes wandering back to the top right of the document, a potential new bar staff recruit. It was a decent picture, blonde, baby blue eyes, tanned, full lips, good potential. His eyes scanned the text, twenty-five-year-old, Paulina Kosharska, hailed from Krakow, already living and working in the UK for two years. Work experience gained in the hotel and hospitality sector. Looking for part time evening work to supplement her daytime supermarket job and online studies. Another Pole, but at least this one was better looking than the man mountain calling himself Jarek.

Jarek stood outside; he took a second to process the information. He approximated that it was fifty metres from the entrance door of the club to Price’s office. The corridor had three internal doors: a stable type door, which he guessed was the ticket office, another door with the words CLOAK ROOM stencilled on to the nameplate and an unmarked door - a holding room for patrons who’d had too much to drink. He recalled four internal security cameras, and three external street cameras. There were two visible security doormen in daylight hours, he guessed this would increase fourfold in the evenings. Perhaps more for the busy nights, Thursday, Friday and Saturdays’. His eyes scanned the details of the flyer. Thursday was Student Night, Friday - Dance and Saturday - Mainstream.

His instructions had been to scope the place out. He’d followed Bosko’s orders to the letter, he’d make an introduction and put forward the proposal. All he had to show for it was a business card and a conversation with a middle-aged poser who’d treated him like some dumb Polak. Jarek smiled to himself, Ronnie Price would soon learn the error of his own judgement.

The next day Jarek went to the public library and sat at the computer overlooking the park, taking up his usual spot. He was a regular; it had got to the point now that the library assistant kept it vacant for him. Alice, at least that’s what her name badge said. A good-looking girl, five nine, a hundred and ten pounds, straight brown hair. Jarek had taken time to talk with her, flirt a little, but nothing too full on. She was delicate, a fragile English Rose, he liked that look. At first it was a little awkward but now they’d found their rhythm, following the same protocol on each visit. The exchange of pleasantries, her nervous smile, his playful eyes burning into her core, leaning in close, his taste buds dancing to the scent of her perfume, as she wrote his name against the booking slot. His senses ablaze, wondering what it would be like to have her.

The strange accent brought him back to the present. ‘Usual spot by the window, it’s all yours.’ He put his fantasy on hold and nodded his appreciation before making his way to the seat.

He liked the view, lots of lush green open spaces. The bits of England he’d seen were all like this, even London with its Regent’s Park, big open spaces to relax in and unwind. A world away from the grim overbearing concrete he’d grown up with in Poland. He focused on the group of kids running and screaming with delight, chasing each other, a game of assault course tag, rampaging after one another running up slide chutes the wrong way, jumping off steps onto the cushioned asphalt texture below. Kids playing, not a care in the world, the way it should be.

Each time he sat there it reminded him of why he’d made the original trek from Poland, leaving his family, his young wife Marta, pregnant with their first child. Jarek had promised himself a long time ago his child would have everything he’d never had. Coming to the UK provided that opportunity, the chance of a better life. The English didn’t know how good they had it. The way Jarek saw it, he worked two jobs. Shitty jobs that no others were prepared to do. He paid his taxes. When he wasn’t working for Simpson at the meat packing warehouse, he was driving a mini-cab, in between fitting in a little extra on the side for Bosko. If it brought in some much needed extra cash, then where was the harm in that? He needed to get established, then he could send for his family, get them out of that crappy post war Soviet era concrete block.

Jarek keyed in HOPWELL ENTERTAINMENT GROUP, drumming his fingers to the side of the keyboard. He waited for the information to scroll down the screen. Nothing unexpected, his previous knowledge confirmed: Ronnie Price, Manager.

He continued to scroll. The page froze two-thirds of the way down. Jarek stared at the name, he mouthed the words out loud: Proprietor Frank Mayer. He knew this name, he was sure this was the same Frank that Bosko had introduced him to, the British-Polish guy. He refreshed the page. Thirty-seconds later his eyes were darting over the précis. Mayer had owned the club since 2009. Previous to that it traded under the name STARLIGHT, it had been the town’s only gay club. Starlight ceased trading in September 2007.  Fire had ravaged the building, no fatalities. Suspected arson but never proven due to lack of evidence. The insurance company had refused to pay out, bankrupting the previous owner. The building remained derelict until 2008, at which point the builders moved in and started work on the renovations.

Jarek searched again, keying in: FRANK MAYER BUSINESSES. Additional information appeared, this time pictures, links to local newspaper articles. Mayer owned Fightstar, a mixed martial arts club. He also owned Centurion Consulting Services Ltd, a security firm that provided doormen to pubs and clubs and other private venues. Seemed that Mayer liked to diversify and spread the risk. It all made good business sense. Frank Mayer was indeed Stanek Bosko’s Frank.

He continued his search. Turns out Mayer got himself arrested back in 1988 but was later released without charge. Jarek scanned the document, Mayer had been questioned in connection with a residential house fire. Suspected arson, two fatalities, a mother and a daughter. Another name appeared Malcolm Thompson, AKA Malkie Thompson. Arrested, later released without charge.

Jarek stared at the grainy picture, a smiling man - shaking hands with some kind of local dignitary. Jarek didn’t understand the English and all their pomp and ceremony. He squinted his eyes, staring at the face cutting the ribbon declaring the Kings Retreat: Open For Business. Gówno. His worst fear confirmed. Jarek took a deep intake of breath. So it was true, Bosko was going after Malkie Thompson.

Jarek knew Bosko had big plans; he respected the man but wondered if he was over-stretching himself. Stanek Bosko had left Poland for the UK eleven years previous. He’d started out on the building sites, organising the gangs, and taking his cut. He made his money, then he moved into renting property to the new arrivals, providing work, transport and housing.

Bosko was a realist, pragmatic to the core. He knew it wouldn’t last forever. He was a victim of his own success. If he wanted to stay in the UK that meant keeping a low profile. Others wanted what he had and given the opportunity they’d take it. London was becoming problematic. As the competition intensified, he had a stark choice, stay and risk a turf war with rival Polish gangs, and even if he beat them that still left the prospect of taking on the Albanians. Or he could leave it all behind and let them settle it. He chose the latter. Better to run and fight another day, at least that way he avoided arrest and deportation, or worse.

Stanek Bosko cut his losses. He went further north and ended up in the Midlands, not so crowded at the time with others like himself trying to carve out a niche. That’s where he’d first met Frank, who’d then made the introduction to Thompson. It started off with the odd freelance job, nothing too heavy, driving - drop offs and pickups, no questions asked. It evolved from there, Bosko turned nothing down. He was building a business, proving himself to be invaluable to Thompson’s day-to-day dealings.

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PAID IN FULL

A STANDALONE BRITISH CRIME THRILLER (EXTRACT)

CHAPTER 1

The dead-eyed stranger matches his stare. His lips are numb, a crackling sensation inside his head adding to the fuzzy sensation running from his neck, into his shoulder, reaching down his arm, and ending at his fingertips. He probes the inside of his mouth with his tongue. The taste is metallic—aluminium, or at least the way he imagines it to be. He swallows it down, the dull aching at the back of his head a constant reminder of his mortality.

He closes his eyes, trying to focus as he repeats the mantra, reciting his name, age, and address. Next, he’ll take some pills and go back to bed—wishing it all away like a bad dream. If only it were that simple.

CHAPTER 2

He logs the details into his phone, a diary entry for when he no longer has the capacity to recall the basics. The time when it all turns to shit, his life playing out like a scene from Memento where the lead role, Leonard, tattoos his body to record details of his life before he loses his mind in its entirety.

He’s checking the time now; still got ninety minutes waiting time. He doesn’t want to appear too eager—bordering on desperate. Better to leave it to the last minute, cut it fine. He hates waiting rooms. The smell, the décor, the people—everything. The worst thing is now he’s part of it, another statistic waiting to happen.

A splinter, a fragment—call it what you will, he knows it’s there, like trying to remember the finer details through the fug of a persistent hangover. That’s what his life’s become. It was just another stupid argument, came out of nowhere, blowing in like a storm. There’s been a lot of that lately, pressure of the job, modern life, and just about anything else he can take a stab at. If she’d just fucking listened that would’ve been the end of it, but no, as always—she was right. There was a time when things like that wouldn’t have mattered, not even registered, but not any more.

She should know by now, they’ve been together long enough, but that’s her all over, she always did like to push his buttons—provoking the reaction, craving the showdown. Well, this time she got it.

Two words that’s all it took. Forget the build-up, those two little words I’m leaving. There’s no coming back from that—turn the next page.

He’s moving to the car now, time he was on his way. He can’t put it off any longer. He needs to know—good or bad. Then he can plan. Garrett’s always been the strategist; it’s what he gets paid for.

He sticks the car in reverse just as his mobile starts chirping away, he resists the temptation to pick it up just as the hands-free connection kicks in. ‘I’m on my way now, I’ll see you there, bye.’

Garrett doesn’t want to be alone, not for this one. At least he knows he can rely on her, unlike his wife.

CHAPTER 3

Garrett’s staring at the time on the digital display, he’s still early. For the moment, he’s content to sit and wait, his thoughts like storm clouds whirling, gathering momentum. He can’t be doing with the inquisitive looks. That can all wait. He takes a deep breath, sucking in the diesel fumes and the detritus, the pollution of modern urban life. He tastes it, rolling it round his mouth like a connoisseur. It sticks to the back of his throat, burning when he breathes in deep.

It’s all down to the final verdict. It could go either way, condemned man or sentence quashed.

His phone’s beeping a text alert—she’s there. Waiting inside. No more delays—he’s going in.

Stepping away from the car, he’s looking at the sky, grey and ominous. He keeps mulling it over in his mind. It has to be this way. The wheels set in motion a long time ago. No opportunity to bail on this one.

He walks towards reception, his heartbeat hammering in his chest. With each step he’s resisting the urge to turn and run. He can’t deny the truth—no better than a dead man walking. Truth always wins out in the end.

One way or another he realises he’s been running all his life. A fugitive on the run, and now he’s handing himself in, hoping for a lighter sentence.

Nothing he can do now except hope for the best and plan for the worst. It’s all down to fate. The gods having their way, toying with him.

Garrett passes by the smokers, slung together like limpets sucking the life out of the dog-ends. One final drag before they go in, putting off the inevitable. He considers joining them, the camaraderie of outcasts. He decides against it, can’t take the risk of pissing her off. Not today.

He tells himself to keep moving. The automatic doors parting with a slow swoosh like waves before him. His eyes scanning the signs, a confusing melee of red, green, and blue fonts merging into one as his eyes struggle to focus. Now he’s making his way down the long, wide corridor to the junction, the smell of fresh disinfectant hanging heavy on the air. He’s ignoring the looks, not that he can see them, but he can feel them. Tunnel vision—that’s the only way, blanking them out, eyes straight ahead.

The hammering sensation in his chest catches his breath. He feels lightheaded, as if he’s about to faint. Garrett reaches out with his arm to steady himself against the mint green wall, and looks down at his feet, feeling as though he’s walking on sponge. He needs to stop, his vision blurring, everything around him turning to a Monet painting. The ground feels as if it’s coming up to meet him head on to swallow him up whole. He can’t breathe—shit, panic attack. He’s looking round, willing himself not to black out. Not here, not in public—he’s still got some dignity. After all, he doesn’t need the attention. Garrett just wants to blend in, to be anonymous—normal, just like everyone else. He’s crouching, breathing deep, telling himself he just needs a minute.

You can do this, he says, willing himself to be strong. He’s straightening up, ignoring the looks, and moving forward. Garrett reaches the junction, turns right. Down the corridor to the end, he turns left then follows the narrow corridor. One hundred yards down, he takes a right. You have now reached your destination.

She’s there, awkward and out of place, pacing up and down in between the rows of waiting patients. The anxiety’s written all over her face. She’s chewing at her gum, and then he remembers her text, the fact that she’s back on the patches and the nicotine gum, desperate to quit. The way she looks right now, he wouldn’t bet against her smoking her way through a pack of twenty before the day is done. He notes that she looks a little older, but even so she’s a striking woman—still good for her age.

They embrace as she fights back the tears, telling herself not here, not now. It’s been over a year since they last met up in person, there’s so much to say and so little time, but nothing can change their bond, not even this.

They sit in silence—waiting. Hands clasped like lovers on a date. Garrett glances around. Storing the information away. The door’s opening, there’s a guy coming out, he has that same look. Garrett knows that look. He’s resigned to it—exclusive members club—invitation only. This is it. He’s next in line. He scans the room one more time. They’re all the same, avoiding eye contact, trying to put off the inevitable by staring off into space—pretending it’s not happening.

Garrett doesn’t hear his name on first call. She squeezes his hand, he looks at her, her eyes imploring him to make the first move.

Show time, he’s up and out of his seat, a little too fast as he struggles to manoeuvre his jellified legs one in front of the other towards the consultation room.

She’s leading him, like a toddler taking his hand. There’s no way out. He’s got to face up to it. The door clicks shut behind him, he’s trapped, caught in the snare.

CHAPTER 4

He sits letting the news sink in, his eyes closed, scrunching the pupils till it hurts as stars dance across his eyelids. It’s just him and the noise, like the tinnitus pitch of a TV of old drilling down to his core.

The drone of the consultant’s voice has slowed like an old seventy-eight record stuck on the go-slow. ‘Mr Garrett… can you hear me?’

Garrett, cold-eyed stare—catatonic.

‘I need to know that you fully understand the diagnosis and its implications.’ The consultant’s words seeping through like syrup, the awakening cold and numb.

First he notices the décor, sparse and business-like. Some might call it professional, or utilitarian. The designer favouring the Northern European, Scandinavian influence, straight out of the IKEA catalogue, the glass topped desk with white, cylindrical legs and matching chairs. The effect is sparse and cold, the aesthetic nondescript, creating a consultation room devoid of character. It’s nothing more than an afterthought tacked on to the side of the ward—hollow and soulless.

His eyes flicker a note of recognition. Autumn rays, like bullet holes piercing the venetian blind, texturised shadows dance across bland, magnolia walls.

‘I get it, just don’t understand… why me?’

‘I’m sorry Mr Garrett… that I can’t answer, but I can say that with radio therapy life may well be prolonged by as much as six months to a year.’ He pauses, his eyes narrow, looking for sincerity. ‘There is no definite time frame.’

‘And without it?’

The consultant, Mr. Aziz, a tall, slim business-like third generation British Asian, early fifties, pauses then smiles. Aziz tries to look comforting, like a kindly old uncle. He makes a point of removing his oval-shaped, carbon fibre designer spectacles, cleaning the lenses on his flamboyant, Tweetie Pie cartoon character tie. He’s playing for time, waiting for the right words to form in his mouth.

‘Mr Garrett, you have a Stage 3a inoperable brain tumour. You may live three weeks or possibly six months. God willing—even longer, but the headaches, the nausea, and mood swings, they’ll all become progressively worse—that’s a given.’

Helen squeezes his hand, he’d zoned out, forgetting she was there. Garrett averts his eyes from Aziz to Helen, seeing the tears well up in her hazel eyes. He knows she’s scared, every fibre of his body feels her pain.

He looks straight at her, his eyes piercing her soul, Garrett forces a smile. He needs to be strong, knowing he has to face it straight on, man up. He squeezes her hand, and nods as if to say it will be all right. But it won’t, it can’t be. The final outcome is inevitable. It’s just a matter of time.

Garrett looks from Helen back to Aziz, and catches the sideways glance. That’s the second time. He chooses to ignore it, pretending not to notice. He reminds himself that she’s a big girl now and she needs to fend for herself, after all, he won’t be around forever.

‘What about work?’

Caught off guard a moment earlier, Aziz fumbles through his notes, ‘And your profession is?’

‘Corporate Analyst.’

Aziz affixes his glasses in situ and eyes Garrett, attempting to get the measure of the man sitting before him. He recalls from standing and shaking his hand when he entered the room that he is of reasonable height, around six feet tall, weighing in around approximately twelve stone. An ordinary guy. Outwardly healthy, with an athletic, wiry physique. In good shape for a man of thirty-nine.

Thirty years experience have taught him that looks can be deceiving. It’s only two weeks since Ronald Johnson’s diagnosis. In the guise of the Grim Reaper, Aziz had delivered the fatal blow on the Tuesday. Johnson had appeared to take the news in his stride. It was, after all, treatable, unlike Garrett’s diagnosis. Friday of the same week, Johnson was found dead. He’d given up, no energy for the fight. Aziz didn’t blame him. At least not initially. Some patients just didn’t have it in them. The blame and glimmer of self-doubt—that came later. Three days later, in fact, after the initial Post Mortem had found that Johnson had OD’d on a mixture of paracetamol and vodka.

Then there was the note. Which in turn led to the on-going investigation. Aziz had been formally notified that he might have to appear before The Board, but at this stage in the proceedings he was free to continue working. The note, which they weren’t at liberty to discuss, was the reason for the enquiry. Nice of them though, he thought, to let him continue, until such time that they decided differently.

Aziz closes his eyes, pushing the recriminations aside. He buries them deep. He needs to focus on the present—Martin Garrett is a fighter.

‘Mr. Garrett…’ He stops, meticulous in the choice of wording. ‘How can I put this? You need to get your house in order, as it were. Particularly if you choose not to have the radiotherapy treatment offered.’ Aziz pauses, and looks straight at Helen. Demure is the word that springs to mind, dark hair and porcelain skin.

He continues, not daring to let his thoughts wander further. ‘It’s your call. There may be other aspects of your personal life,’ Aziz lingers on the word personal, his eyes boring into Helen, ‘… that take precedent over work commitments.’

Garrett inhales sharply and straightens himself out of the chair. Projecting his body upward in one fluid movement. No sign of weakness, not that of a condemned man. He thrusts his hand out towards Aziz. Gripping it, he thanks him for the diagnosis and candid summary.

He turns to Helen, ‘come on, let’s get out of here.’

Outside, he looks up at the bright, powder blue, cloudless sky, the air is crisp. He breathes it in long and deep. Winter’s just around the corner. He wonders if he’ll be around to see it. Helen’s light and gentle touch to the shoulder brings him back to the present.

‘I know you’re scared, and I’ve known you long enough to realise that you’re too damned stubborn to admit it or ask for help, but the offer’s there. This new assignment, it can wait.’

Ignoring her offer, Garrett forces a weak smile. ‘Saw him checking you out back there. Should’ve planted one on him.’

‘More important things to deal with, don’t you think, Martin?’ She’s the only one who ever calls him by his first name. To everyone else, he’s just plain old Garrett, even to his wife, but there’s something comforting in the way she says Martin.

Lines crease his face. ‘I appreciate what you’re doing, really I do, and thanks for today. It’s just something I need to get my head round, work it out for myself, you know?’

Helen nods agreement, no use in flogging a dead horse. She wants to say more, but can’t find the right words. Not quite sure how to go about it, she decides to blurt it out. ‘It’s not really my business but… You really should let Maria know.’

Garrett seems to consider it for a moment, before shaking his head. His mind is made up. ‘For what? It won’t change a thing.’

The last flicker of hope vanishes from her eyes. ‘Maybe, maybe not.’ She’s about to add some infinite wisdom as the bleep of a text message diverts her attention. She mouths a silent apology S O R R Y, as she’s interrupted by an immediate second annoying text.

‘You’re popular,’ says Garrett, reaching into his jacket pocket to check his own messages.

Helen glances at the screen, her brow ceasing. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. I need to go. Call me, I mean it, any changes—I want to know straight away.’

‘Go... Go on. We’ll speak soon.’ It’s just a formality, and they both know it. Later, she’ll be boarding a flight, off to God knows where—another foreign assignment.

They embrace; she can’t look him in the eye. Fearing he’ll see straight through her, it’s important that she remains strong for him. Secretly, he’s glad of it. He can’t handle an emotional outbreak, not now. Definitely not in broad daylight in the middle of a public car park.

She’s moving away, looking back over her shoulder, waving at him like some enthusiastic lunatic. They both feel it, caught under the black cloak of death. He wonders if they’ll ever meet up again, maybe in a different life.

Garrett watches her go. Seconds later, she’s out of sight, swallowed by the mass of cars.

Now it’s just him, on his Jack Jones, against the world.

* * *

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FINAL NOTE FROM MARK J NEWMAN

Thanks again for taking the time to read Violence In The Blood, I do hope you enjoyed it, and took the opportunity to read the sample chapters from books 2, 3 & 4 in the series.

I’ve also included an extended extract from my standalone British Crime Thriller: Paid In Full, a tale of revenge with a killer twist.

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