The Good Life (15 page)

‘The thing is, some of the people we take from on the weekly have complained that they have been approached by an outside party to pay them, not us. The people concerned told them to fuck off and that seemed to be the end of it. To be honest, I didn’t really give it much thought either way. Just some youngsters chancing their arms, you know? The usual. But now, I ain’t so sure. I think I should have investigated.’

Cain grinned. ‘Well, hindsight is a wonderful thing. Why would you? Who in their right minds would take us on? I tell you now, Johnny, it can’t be anyone we deal with. This is someone inside our crew. It has to be. No one else could have the information needed to co-ordinate all this. The club alone has a better security system than the crown jewels. This is personal.’

Johnny nodded; he could see the logic. But it still would take a better fucking man than any they had working for them.

‘Or, look at it this way: someone has infiltrated, recruited some of our better workers and got the information needed from them. Money is a powerful incentive, as we both know, Cain.’

‘Has anyone complained? Said they feel sidelined, unappreciated? Has anyone come to you for a raise?’

Johnny shook his head. ‘No. But if we can nail that, it’s bound to lead to the fuckers behind the bombings.’

A car pulled up outside and its headlights made the room appear brighter for a moment. Johnny Mac looked out of the window and said airily, ‘It’s that fucking prat from the bomb squad, and he has Denny Gunn with him.’

‘Denny Gunn is old school. He deals with the Irish so he will know if it’s a regular bomb or army.’

They ushered the men into the small offices and settled them with a drink. The tension was almost palpable. Detective Inspector Frank Harper had been on the payroll for years, but this was the first time his presence had been requested and he was none too happy about it. He loved getting the extra money – he had just never thought his particular expertise would ever be needed. Now it was, he was nervous and he was wondering if he was doing the right thing.

‘So, Harper, what’s your opinion?’

Frank Harper was good at his job, and he was used to a certain degree of respect from his colleagues. He was also a greedy, two-faced, double-dealing wanker but no one had said that to his face as yet. He sipped his whisky and said pompously, ‘I can’t give you an
exact
opinion – this is not really an
exact
science.’

Cain butted in then. ‘Well, I wish you had explained that to us years ago, before we started paying you the national fucking debt for your services which, I might remind you, we have never used until now.’

Johnny and Denny both tried to contain their smiles.

Frank Harper realised he had just dropped a serious bollock. He tried to redeem himself by saying, ‘One thing I can tell you, Mr Moran, is that it wasn’t the Irish.’

Denny Gunn laughed. ‘That, Mr Harper, is why I am here. I could have told them that.’

Frank Harper was nonplussed, not sure how to handle the situation.

Denny sighed heavily before saying, ‘Fucking amateur night, Cain. No real use of detonators, a kid doing O-level chemistry could have managed it. But it’s not a professional, I would stake my life on that. If it
had
been a professional, you would not be here now.’

That was a very sobering thought.

‘But, by the same token, they did the job. The bomb in the club in Wardour Street had a dodgy fucking timer, it went off far too early.’ He sounded grieved by this; he loved his weaponry and he hated to see it used in such a terribly poor way. He saw bombs and guns as things of beauty, albeit dangerous beauty. ‘Oh, and before I forget, you asked me, Johnny, about the guns that were used for the robbery. Well, I can tell you that a young man called Shane Dwyer purchased those same guns three weeks ago from one of my lads. Now, he isn’t exactly IRA but he is connected – his brother is in the Maze doing life. He’s a very erratic young man from Belfast. Good Catholic boy, and a staunch Republican, but not what you would call stable. He has never joined the firm, so to speak. I reckon you find him, you find your fucking mole. He is a little gangster, a gun for hire. You know the type. Reckless. No fucking brain capacity whatsoever. Now his brother Eamonn is a great lad – I had the privilege of meeting with him on more than one occasion. One of your own, and a great soldier. Knows his way around a fucking circuit board too.’

Frank Harper was listening to all this with eyes like flying saucers. He was anti-terrorist and it had only just occurred to him just what he had got himself into.

‘Shane Dwyer.’ Cain grinned. ‘He must be a loose cannon if even the IRA won’t have him.’

Denny Gunn shrugged. ‘You’ve dealt with them, you know they are a real military operation. They won’t take any chances, and who could blame them?’

Cain and Johnny nodded in agreement.

‘So, any idea where he might be?’

‘Myself, I would scout Kilburn first. It’s a big Irish community, and the IRA can hide there working on the builds. Nowadays, though, they are mainly collecting for the cause.’ He laughed his head off then. ‘Mark my words, young Gerry Adams will be in the parliament one day.’

Cain laughed along with him. ‘Please my old mum anyway. Thanks, Denny, you’ve been a real star, mate.’

Frank Harper just looked on in amazement, wondering why this man Gunn knew more about the terrorist situation than he did. He felt as if he had been slapped in the face. All the time and effort that had gone into covert surveillance operations and the only thing they had really needed to do was ask a gun dealer from North London what the real score was. It was fucking laughable.

It took twenty-four hours to locate Shane Dwyer, but they didn’t get hold of him the way they thought they would.

Shane turned up at their offices in Soho large as life and twice as ugly. He looked like the type of person you crossed the road to avoid.

He was tall, with powerful shoulders, but very skinny legs. His head was bullet-shaped and his gleaming white teeth were crooked. But it was his eyes which told people that here was a man who was definitely not firing on all cylinders. They were large and a very pale grey colour, so thickly lashed they should have been beautiful, but there was no spark of life in them. He looked out with a dead-eyed stare, rarely blinking. Together with his sandy hair and sparse eyebrows, he seemed like the poster boy for the mentally challenged.

Cain and Johnny Mac didn’t know what to make of this man’s sudden arrival. He was grinning from ear to ear and he seemed pleased to have caught them on the hop, so to speak.

‘I hear you are looking for me?’

Johnny and Cain just stared at each other in shocked amusement. This bloke had to be a Grade-A headbanger.

‘You heard right.’ Cain’s voice was dripping with sarcasm now, the enormity of the man’s actions shaking him out of his disbelief.

‘Well, here I am, Mr Moran. I hate to disappoint.’ He had a deep, musical voice, with the clipped Belfast tones of his home city.

Johnny Mac wanted to laugh; this was just too surreal.

Cain sniffed loudly before saying seriously, ‘Your mum should have called you Daniel, because you just walked into the lion’s den, mate.’

Shane Dwyer grinned in delight at that. ‘Ah, now I like a man with a sense of humour.’

Cain motioned to Johnny Mac who then pinned the man’s arms behind his back as Cain punched him unconscious. When he was out for the count they dropped him on to the floor, and then both burst out laughing.

‘What a fucking twonk, Johnny. Got to give him creds for sheer balls. If he survives this we should put him to work on the firm!’

Johnny Mac was shaking his head in amazement saying, ‘Fucking unbelievable’ over and over. They had him trussed like a chicken and in the back of a van within ten minutes. Shane Dwyer was going to tell them what he knew if it was the last thing he did on this earth.

Jenny and Molly were both wondering what was going to happen next. It was obvious that this was far more serious than Cain was making out, especially as the London bombing had made it on to the news. It certainly wasn’t a gas fault, even if the news crews weren’t aware of it. Molly poured them a glass of chilled white wine each, and Jenny, who rarely drank, swallowed half the glass in one mouthful.

Molly grinned. ‘Looks like you needed that.’

Jenny nodded. ‘I can’t stop worrying, Moll. No matter what Cain says, I feel like something’s going to happen, you know? There’s a dread hanging over my head. I can’t explain it.’

Molly sipped her wine thoughtfully. She recognised the feeling – she had it herself.

‘Well, you know Cain, and you know what kind of a life he lives, darling. This is part and parcel of being with a man like him.’

‘I do know that. But it still frightens me. We could have been hurt as well, me and Cain Junior. It sort of brings it home to you, I suppose.’

Molly poured more wine into Jenny’s glass and said seriously, ‘He’s done a good job keeping the peace for so long. In the old days London was a law unto itself, especially after they put away the Richardsons and the Krays. The streets were anyone’s suddenly. It was a fecking free for all. Believe me, those were dangerous times. Cain and Johnny Mac have given the pavements back to the honest in many ways. Now someone is after what they have – it’s the nature of that particular beast. Knowing my son like I do, I don’t hold out much hope for the perpetrators.’

Jenny sighed heavily. ‘That’s what worries me, Molly.’

Molly didn’t answer but kept her own counsel; she was as worried as Jenny, but she couldn’t let the girl see that – Jenny was a bundle of nerves as it was. There was definitely something very suspicious going on, and it was clear that, despite outward appearances, her son was worried too. Once people went after your family – a definite no-no in their world – it indicated that they meant business and were willing to do basically anything to achieve their ultimate goal. That goal, of course, was taking what Cain and Johnny had.

The music inside the Parakeet nightclub in Ilford was so loud the building was shaking. It was disco night and Sinitta’s ‘Toy Boy’ was blaring out of the speakers. The dance floor was packed with revellers and the tills were clanging up a small goldmine.

In the attic of the club, a soundproofed room kept aside for dirty work, Shane Dwyer was tied to a chair and still chatting amiably in his sing-song voice as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

‘Do you ever fucking shut up?’

Shane laughed once again. ‘I even talk in my sleep or so I’ve been told anyway.’

Johnny and Cain, against their better judgement, actually couldn’t help liking the man. He was so off the wall, and so honest. It was quite endearing in a strange, David Cronenberg kind of way. He seemed so eager to please, but he was definitely not the full ten bob. Shane Dwyer was like an overgrown schoolboy. Granted, a very dangerous overgrown schoolboy, but there was definitely something about him that caught people off guard. If he didn’t have such expressionless eyes he could be really likeable.

‘So, Shane, I hear your brother Eamonn is a good bloke. Has he got anything to do with what’s been happening?’

It was the logical place to start; the Irish were always interfering in someone’s business.

Though, according to Gunn, they had no real interest in Cain, otherwise he would have heard about it well before now. Cain liked and trusted Denny Gunn and he was willing to take his word, but he still had to ask.

Shane shook his head. ‘No, you’re barking up the wrong tree there. He’s in for the duration, mate – he won’t be out till there’s either a united Ireland or he dies.’

Johnny Mac sighed heavily. This bloke talked like a complete cunt, and expected everyone to go along with him. Johnny Mac had finally reached the end of what was normally for him a pretty long tether. He punched Shane with all the strength he possessed in the side of his head, nearly knocking both the man and the chair he was tied to on to the floor. It hurt Johnny’s fist, so it had to have hurt Shane Dwyer. Shane took the blow as best he could and was still smiling, even if that smile was dripping blood.

Johnny Mac bent down and shouted into Shane’s face, ‘Where is our fucking money you robbed? We know it was you at the services. You bought the guns and we traced them back to you. You might as well give it up before this gets really nasty.’

Shane Dwyer just carried on smiling his maniacal smile. ‘I can take whatever anyone doles out to me, fellas. I’ll be just grand.’ And he was grinning again, a bloody rictus grin that told Cain Moran and Johnny Mac that they had their work cut out for them.

Sighing, Cain lit the blowtorch. This man was going to take persuading, and that would obviously involve a lot of pain. But there was one thing Cain and Johnny knew for sure: this loony wasn’t going to give up anything without a fight first. Shame really, because they had both taken quite a shine to him.

Denny Gunn was exhausted, and he was looking forward to getting into his bed.

Denny was a real loner, with no wife or family to hinder his solitary lifestyle. That was what suited him, but he took an occasional flier with a pro every now and then to settle his manly urges. He decided to get himself one tonight, take the edge off him. It had been a while, and he could do with the exercise, if he was honest.

The last girl he had bought himself had been a young Russian – Svetlana? Irina? One of those names. She had badly dyed hair, pretty eyes and tits like concrete. But she had a nice way about her – even if her thighs were on the larger side. That was down to the diet here he reckoned, and why those girls were making their way to London in droves for a better way of life, more money and opportunities. She wasn’t cheap, but she wouldn’t break the bank, and she was up for almost anything.

Inside his flat he phoned her number, and arranged for her to visit him within the hour. He had been forced to promise her double but he was willing to pay that. Now that he was thinking about her, he was quite looking forward to the encounter. She worked for a couple of Turks out of South London; they were two brothers who were sensible but also very fair-minded where the girls were concerned. They could also lay their hands on pretty good weaponry for the right price, mainly Russian guns out of Iran and Iraq. Good market for that kind of hardware. Cain had put him on to them. And Denny was cultivating them for a future relationship, one that would be to all their benefits.