Revenge (25 page)

Chapter Sixty-Four

Michael held his hands out in a gesture of supplication. He knew that his late arrival would not be overlooked by Declan – tardiness was his pet hate.

‘I’m sorry, Declan, but I had to sort some stuff out at home.’

Michael looked immaculate as always; the man had clearly spent a long time on his appearance. It was Michael Flynn’s only vanity, he never looked anything other than perfect. Declan knew that his haphazard approach to life was the antithesis of Michael’s. Declan was getting larger by the month and he had never been what anyone would call a looker. Unlike Michael Flynn, however, he didn’t care about that. Michael, though, looked every inch the part of the well-heeled Face, from the expensive gold watch to his perfect haircut.

‘You know why I called this meeting, so let’s not fuck about, eh?’

Michael laughed at his friend’s attitude; only Declan would dare to talk to him like that – only Declan could get away with it. He shook his head slowly in mock disbelief. ‘OK, hold your fucking horses! It’s sorted, all right?’ He was being deliberately contrite, apologising without saying a word.

‘I’m gonna need a bit more than that, Michael, and you fucking know it.’

The smile was gone now, and Declan was reminded of just how hazardous confronting someone like Michael Flynn could be. Like Patrick, his late brother, the man was capable of literally anything if crossed. He would do well to remember that, even if he had the man’s respect and his affection.

‘I know what you’re saying, Declan. Believe me, I’ve tried to build bridges. I’ve given them every opportunity to sort the situation out between them. Jeffrey Palmer was willing to swallow his knob. He knew he had dropped a humungous fucking bollock from the off. But Jermaine O’Shay has been a real pain. He just won’t let it go – not even for me.’

Declan sat down suddenly, and looked out of the large picture window that had a really magnificent view over the river. It was a cold day, overcast, a typical March morning. The threat of spring was in the air, and London looked like shit. He sighed. He could already see exactly where this was going. If Michael Flynn requested a personal favour, he expected the person to agree immediately.

‘So what are you saying, Michael?’

Michael dragged a chair over to where Declan was sitting, and settled in beside him. Then, after a few moments, he said quietly, ‘I’ve thought about this long and hard. I even asked Jermaine, as a friend, to overlook Jeffrey’s faux pas, put it behind him. They are both good men. But he won’t.’

Declan looked at Michael, saw the suppressed anger in his face, and the way that Michael was trying to hide it. But Declan knew him too well. ‘So what are you going to do about it?’

Michael grinned amiably, all white teeth and stunning good looks. ‘What else can I do, Declan? I have been left with no fucking choice. They have to go.’

It was as Declan had expected. He couldn’t change anything even if he wanted to. ‘I see. Both men are well connected. It will be noticed.’

Michael smiled easily once again. ‘I should hope so too! This is a fucking warning, mate. It’s my way, or no way.’

Declan watched quietly as Michael picked imaginary dirt from his trousers using his manicured nails, pretending everything was normal.

‘When are you going to do it?’

Michael looked over the river; he loved this view, he loved these offices. They spelt success to him. His legitimate businesses were booming, and that was important. He knew that if you earned enough legit money, it made it so much harder for anyone to find a reason to investigate your finances. He paid a lot of money out to keep his life on track – not just to accountants and secretarial staff, but also to the police, and the people the police dealt with. But it was worth every penny spent. He had more Filth and CPS on his bankroll than the Metropolitan Police Force. He paid off people all over the country. It made good business sense.

He looked at Declan, knew that the man was not sure about the latest developments. That wasn’t unexpected, but he knew Declan would go along with him as always. ‘
We
are going to do it tonight, mate. I’ve arranged a sit down at the scrapyard.’

Declan nodded his agreement, as Michael knew he would.

‘I think I’ve been good, actually. Normally, I would have taken them out much earlier. But now I’ve had enough.’

Chapter Sixty-Five

Jermaine O’Shay was wary. He didn’t trust Michael Flynn as far as he could throw him. As far as Jermaine was concerned, Palmer should have been removed from the equation the minute he fucked up. But Michael Flynn had been determined to find a way to sort everything out. He had understood Jermaine’s problem – had agreed with him, sympathised – but he had still wanted him to let it go. He had even asked him to swallow as a personal favour to him.

As if that was ever going to happen. Jeffrey Palmer wasn’t a cunt, but by the same token, he had tried to treat Jermaine like one. Palmer had a good rep, was well-liked, but then so was he. This was about respect, and Michael Flynn needed to understand that. His assurance that he had sorted everything out just wasn’t good enough. It had gone pear-shaped from day one. Palmer had tried to tuck him up and there was no way Jermaine O’Shay was going to back down. He was going mob-handed to this meet and, if it all went off, he would be prepared.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Jeffrey Palmer sipped his whisky, and felt himself relax. This had not been anything like he had expected. Declan and Michael were both friendly and chatty, making sure he was comfortable, asking if he needed anything else.

The scrapyard was legendary, and this was the first time he had been there. Everyone knew that this was where Michael and Patrick had conducted their real business. It was also a big earner in its own right; he had been told that over a million pounds worth of scrap went through the place every year.

‘I hope we can sort everything tonight, Jeff. I don’t like discord within my workforce. It causes unnecessary aggro for everyone.’

Jeffrey sipped his drink, savouring the taste of the whisky. ‘You know I don’t want it either, mate. I dropped a fucking big bollock, and if I could fucking take it back I would. I just got a bit overenthusiastic, that’s all. I was blinded by the earn.’

Michael laughed at the man’s honesty. ‘Well, you will know for the future.’

The headlights from a car played over the ceiling, and Michael got up from his chair behind the dilapidated desk, and walked to the door. Opening it wide, he said gaily, ‘Get yourself in, mate. It’s fucking freezing.’

Jermaine got out of his car, and Michael saw he had two men with him. They were both close to Jermaine O’Shay, had worked for him for years. Michael Flynn ushered them into the Portakabin, before closing the door. Then, rubbing his hands together noisily, he said jovially, ‘It’s fucking taters out there tonight, all right. Colder than a witch’s tit.’

The Portakabin was warm and inviting. Motioning to Jermaine with his hands, Michael watched as he sat down in the only other available chair. His two minders stood awkwardly by the doorway. The Portakabin was already filled to capacity; none of the men there were exactly small.

‘I thought I said to come alone, Jermaine?’ Michael’s voice was cold now. His face without his usual smile, without any emotion whatsoever, looked very different, like a mask.

Jermaine O’Shay was not going to be intimidated. He had two of his best men with him and he was here to fight his corner, and remind Michael of who he worked with, and why he was so well thought of. He was partner to some of the hardest men who walked the earth. This was not a fucking friendly sit down, as far as he was concerned. This was him, making a point, once and for all. This had gone on too long now, and he was bored with it.

‘Well, as you can see, Michael, I didn’t. I haven’t come here to negotiate.’

Alarm bells rang for Jeffrey Palmer – there was going to be trouble. He swallowed the last of his whisky quickly. He could see that Declan Costello was as nervous as he was. This was not going to end well, he knew that much.

Michael laughed gently. ‘Do you know what, Jermaine? I fucking knew you would come mob-handed. I said that to you, didn’t I, Declan?’

Declan nodded his agreement. ‘You did at that, Michael. That’s why we made provision for just such a situation.’

Jermaine O’Shay frowned. This was not what he was expecting at all.

Declan got up and opened the door that led to the other office.

Michael Flynn called out happily, ‘Come in, guys, your moment in the spotlight has arrived at last.’

When Jermaine O’Shay saw the Barker brothers enter, he felt his heart sink like a stone in his chest. There were four Barker brothers, they were each born within a five-year period, and looked like clones. They were all over six foot, heavily built, with a natural penchant for extreme violence. Born from a Jamaican father, and a second-generation Dutch mother, they were handsome fucks, with coffee-coloured skin and dark blue eyes. They were Michael Flynn’s private army, and he paid them well. He had their loyalty but, more importantly, he had their friendship. They only worked for the people they
wanted
to; they were known throughout England as men of courage, men of good character who couldn’t be owned. They had always stood alone, and that was why they were so sought after. Now they were standing there with machetes in their hands, and smiles on their faces, eager to get down to business.

‘I think this is what is called in France, a
fait accompli
. Basically, mate, you’re fucked.’

Jermaine looked at his men then, still expecting them to back him up. But they were both standing by the doorway, staring straight ahead.

Michael shrugged nonchalantly. ‘I asked you to swallow, Jermaine, but you refused. Months of aggro you’ve given me.’

Jermaine O’Shay was still not going to be intimidated. ‘You know I deserve better than this, Michael. Remember who I work for.’

Michael laughed again. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me, Jermaine. I don’t shit without planning it out first.’ He put his hand on Jeffrey Palmer’s shoulder and squeezed it. ‘I never wanted this, remember that.’

He went to his desk and opened up one of the drawers, taking out a small axe. ‘But I always do my own dirty work.’

He split open Jeffrey Palmer’s skull with one massive blow. ‘I think that is what the Jamaican Yardies call a permanent parting.’

No one moved, or batted an eyelid.

Jermaine O’Shay felt the spray of blood hit his face. It was outrageous. He watched in disbelief as Michael chopped the man’s head off. Declan was looking at Jermaine with resignation and sorrow. He had tried to warn him, but he wouldn’t listen.

Michael Flynn was drenched in blood now, it was like a scene from a cheap horror film. Jermaine tried to stand up, tried to defend himself, but his own men forced him back on to the chair, and held him in place.

Michael laughed once more. ‘I hope you realise, Jermaine, that this is nothing personal. I liked you. I liked Jeffrey. But I will not be crossed. I will not be treated like a cunt by anyone. I gave you every chance I could. But you insisted on throwing it all back into my face. So fuck you.’

He took his time with Jermaine O’Shay, knowing that this night would be whispered about and remembered by all present. It was about credibility, about teaching people a lesson. It was about making sure the people you employed never forgot who they were dealing with. It was about making a point for the future. Even the Barker boys were impressed, Declan could see that. Like them, Michael Flynn actually enjoyed this.

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Josephine heard Michael come in and glanced at the alarm clock on her bedside table. It was four a.m. She had just fed the baby, and was settling herself into bed again. She waited a few minutes, expecting him to sneak into the bedroom as he usually did. But he didn’t come.

Then she heard the shower turn on in the main bathroom. He always used the shower in their en suite, and she wondered why he would suddenly need a shower in the middle of the night.

She got out of the bed, and walked silently out of the bedroom, and across to the bathroom. She slipped through the bathroom door, shutting it quietly behind her. It was a large room, with black marble tiles from floor to ceiling, and an antique bath that had cost a fortune. The walk-in shower was big enough for five people. She saw his clothes on the floor. They were soaked in blood. She instinctively reached for them and saw Michael watching her from the shower as she bundled them up quickly.

‘Bring the towels down when you’re finished, Michael.’

His eyes followed her as she left the room, before he turned back to finish his shower.

When he came downstairs she was burning everything in the large fireplace in his office. He passed her the towels he had used, and she threw them on to the blaze without a word. She didn’t want this mess in her home.

‘Is that everything?’

He nodded.

‘You’re safe, then?’

He pulled her into his arms, and held her tightly. ‘’Course I am, you silly mare.’ He kissed her hair. She was trembling.

‘We’ve got a baby now, remember.’

Michael smiled as he pulled her away from him gently, and looked deep into her eyes. ‘How could I ever forget? It’s all for you and her now.’

She smiled back brokenly. ‘I know that, Michael. I know.’

Book Three

He who brings trouble to his family will inherit only wind, and the fool will be servant to the wise

Proverbs 11:29

Chapter Sixty-Eight

2004

‘That is one lairy little mare, Josephine. Don’t you let her get away with it.’

Lana was furious, and Jessie Flynn knew her nana had a right to feel like that. She was heart-sorry for what she had said to her, but she had been goaded.

Josephine didn’t answer. Instead she kissed her daughter on the cheek, and walked her to the front door. ‘Declan is dropping you off at the disco, and your dad or I will pick you up, OK?’

Jessie sighed theatrically, still ashamed about swearing at her nana, but at least her mum understood why she had done it. ‘I know, Mum. Why change the habits of a lifetime?’

‘Well, we worry about you, darling, that’s all.’

It was said easily, but the underlying warning was there. Jessie was well aware that her father would never let her out of the house if it wasn’t for her mother.

‘I’m sorry for shouting at Nana.’

Josephine smiled sadly. ‘I know that, lovely. She means well, try and remember that. She was the same with me.’

‘I know. But I hate having to fight for my freedom, Mum.’

Josephine laughed delightedly at her daughter’s dejected countenance. She was a real drama queen, a natural actress.

‘Look, darling, if it was left to your father you’d never leave the fucking house. I’ve told you before, the best way to manage him is to let him think he is in control.’

Jessie rolled her big blue eyes with annoyance. ‘I’m nearly fifteen, Mum, I’m not a child any more.’

Josephine pushed her away gently. ‘Well, the jury’s still out on that one, mate. Have a good night.’

She watched her daughter as she climbed into her uncle Declan’s Mercedes. As she waved her off she felt a stab of fear. Jessie looked eighteen even without any make-up on – she was her daughter all right. Done up she looked like a grown woman. But she wasn’t, that was the trouble. She was twenty-five in her body, but still a child in her mind. Older men looked at her with interest, and why wouldn’t they? She didn’t look like a schoolgirl; she had ripened far too early, bless her heart. It was a godsend that she was Michael Flynn’s daughter, that alone gave her the protection most girls of her age didn’t have. She was a beautiful girl, and that wasn’t a mother talking. Her Jessie was a true stunner, in every way that counted for this generation.

She went back into the kitchen, prepared for the fact that her mother was going to give her an earful about why Jessie should never be allowed out without a chaperone. Her mum worried about Jessie looking so much older than her years, and she did too. But, by the same token, her Jessie had her head screwed on. It was strange because Jessie was much closer to Michael’s mum than hers. Who would ever have thought that? Hannah seemed to understand her granddaughter in a way that Lana couldn’t comprehend. If she didn’t know better, she might actually think her own mother didn’t like her only grandchild. Lana always seemed to be finding fault with her. It hurt Josephine because her Jessie was a good kid, but all Lana saw was the girl’s appearance, and she seemed to insinuate that Jessie being well-developed was a black mark against her somehow. It wasn’t something that anyone could have prevented. Nature had endowed her daughter with good looks, a great figure and a bone structure to die for. She was a sensible girl, who had never given them a day’s worry, and that was the most important thing as far as Josephine was concerned.

Lana was still fuming at being called an old bitch. ‘Did you hear the way she spoke to me, Josephine? Who does she think she is? You need to put a stop to that fucker’s gallop, I’m telling you.’

Josephine looked at her mother, saw the way she was bristling with indignation, determined to make her point about her only grandchild, and suddenly she heard herself bellowing loudly, ‘Oh, Mum, will you give it a rest, for fuck’s sake? She’s fourteen years old! Get off her back, and give her a chance.’

‘You let her get away with murder. You are making a rod for your own back, madam.’

Josephine was trying hard to keep a lid on her anger. ‘Do you know what, Mum? Jessie is a fucking good kid, she does well at school, she goes to Mass without a fight, she helps out around the house. She never pushes her luck. She is my baby and, unlike you, I don’t look for flaws, or weaknesses. She’s still a kid, Mum, so let her be one while she has the chance.’

Lana sighed. She couldn’t help it but she didn’t like the child – didn’t trust her. She was still waters, deeper than the ocean, that fucker. She would be proved right eventually. She
loved
her granddaughter – of course she did – but there was no liking there. Jessie Flynn was so selfish, so arrogant, so self-assured it was sickening to witness. She wouldn’t be a kid for long. Already she knew too much. She had never understood the word no but, then again, she had never heard it. Everything she had ever wanted, she had been given. Michael would pluck the moon out of the sky if she asked him to. She was the only child, late arriving, and she was treated like fucking royalty. But she was also sneaky. Even as a little kid she had known she possessed the upper hand in the relationship with her parents. She was an accident waiting to happen, she would not toe the line for much longer, Lana would put money on that.

She looked at her daughter, who she loved with a vengeance and, modulating her voice, she said carefully, ‘All I’m saying, Josephine, is she plays you like a fucking banjo.’

Josephine laughed. ‘’Course she does, Mum! It’s called being a teenager. It’s what they
do
. But she knows that me and Michael wouldn’t put up with too much nonsense from her. She is still young enough to listen to what we say to her. Now, do you want another glass of wine or not?’

Lana nodded. Josephine poured the wine, and Lana turned her thoughts to her daughter. Josephine rarely left her house now – more often than not it was Lana who did the shopping for the family these days. Josephine was becoming more insular by the week, and young Jessie wasn’t a fool – she would be bound to use that to her advantage. It was human nature. She had a lot of her father in her; she was stubborn just like him, and she was prone to serious anger when thwarted. She was her mother’s double in her looks, but she had inherited none of her mother’s kindly nature. Like her father, she rarely showed anybody her real self. She had inherited Michael’s temper too. It had occasionally surfaced over the years and, just like Michael’s, when it did finally erupt, it was a powerful force in its own right.