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Chapter Twenty-Five

Detective Scanlon was not a happy bunny. In fact he was fuming. When he had been summoned, and that was the only way he could describe it, he had wondered if the whole thing was a wind-up. He was not a man to be ordered around, in fact he had an allergic reaction to anyone ordering him about or trying to tell him anything.

As he sat in his car outside the club in Soho and watched the people walking by, he felt the anger again. That this little shit was in a position to dictate to him was showing him just how much the world he knew had changed.

He had been earning a crust of this kind since he had been on the beat. It had started off with him turning a blind eye. As the years had gone on, he had carried on taking money because he had got to a stage where he was dependent on it. He needed it to provide the things he now saw as his right.

It was only now that he had been summoned like a naughty schoolboy, by a child no less, that what he had been doing finally hit him. At some point he had known that he would be called on to perform some task to justify the wages he had been pulling in all this time. It stood to reason. He had a feeling that the time to pay for it was now. And he didn't want to do it. But the man inside this building owned him and, because of that, he could feel the enormity of what he had been doing for so long.

He got out of the car and, waving off his sergeant, he walked through the drizzle into the warmth of the club. The brightness inside the foyer was too much for his eyes after sitting in the dimness outside plucking up his courage, and he could feel them watering. He coughed nervously as a young lady with small breasts, a tight dress and long permed hair dyed a suspect shade of red smiled at him in a friendly manner. She was sitting behind a polished counter and, perched on a high stool, she gave the impression of being far more important than she actually was. He saw the bouncer eyeing him and knew he was as aware of his name and his occupation as he was himself. The shame set in then and he asked the young lady for Patrick Brodie. The doorman motioned towards him with his head and he followed him through the club seeing the hostesses sitting smoking, waiting for the next punters to arrive. He walked across the dance floor where a stripper was bending over naked. She had just finished her act and was picking up her discarded clothes from the floor. She wasn't even pretty close up; in fact, she had certainly seen better days. The thick make-up that looked so glamorous under the lights was flaking off but she looked Scanlon over as if he was something she had found on the bottom of her shoe. She made him feel even more like the traitor he was. The whole place seemed to reek of decay and his eyes alighted on the men already seated around the dance floor. They had the look of men who paid for female company, from their ill-fitting suits to the scuffed and well-worn briefcases that would have been presents from the wives and children who had no idea where the men in their lives actually spent their leisure time.

A heavy rock tune blasted through the speakers heralding the next stripper and, as she brushed past him, he smelt the aroma of stale sweat and Murray mints.

They walked through to the back of the club and as they descended the stairs into the basement he felt physically sick. The bile was filling his mouth, burning him and he swallowed it down as best he could. His nerves were already shattered and when he finally reached the cement floor of the basement he knew that he had finally reached rock-bottom in more ways than one.

Pat Brodie was sitting at a small table drinking a brandy and he was surprised at just how masculine the boy actually was. Scanlon nodded slightly to him in greeting and was aware that he didn't get any kind of recognition in return. Pat Brodie just stared at him and then, after what seemed an age, he pointed to a pile of what Scanlon had thought was rags in the corner of the room.

'All yours, mate.'

It was only on closer inspection that Scanlon realised it was a dead body.

'Stop being so silly, Kath. Get up and come out with me.' Eileen could hear the anger in her own voice and she tried to calm herself down even as she felt the frustration that her sister caused her.

Kathleen was the image of her, it was like looking in the mirror except she didn't seem to have any life about her. She had been bad enough before but lately she was even worse. Her whole body seemed to have collapsed in on her and her eyes were black-rimmed. It was heartbreaking to look at her.

'I don't want to go, all right.'

Eileen gritted her teeth and forced a smile on to her face, 'Oh, come on, Kath. You'll enjoy it once you get there and there's a band on as well. It's called Flanagan's Speakeasy and everyone we know is gonna be there. And it's in Barking so we won't have to worry about the boys watching over us.'

'I don't wanna go, right?'

'Well you're going!'

Eileen stood up and grabbing the bedclothes she yanked them off her sister roughly. Kathleen sat up in the bed and attempted to pull the bedclothes back over her. She was almost having a tug of war with her sister and then Eileen noticed that Kathleen had seen herself in the dressing-table mirror. She dropped the bedding and stared at herself. Eileen watched her sister for a few seconds, wondering what she would do next. Her eyes were hooded and she peered at herself as if she had never seen herself before.

Then she leant forward and, dragging the covers back up, she turned on her side. With her back to her sister she pulled the covers over her shoulders again.

Took, Kath, there's something wrong with you and I don't know how to help you. I love you as my sister and I want to see you get back to normal…'

Kathleen didn't answer her. The quiet in the room was heavy with unanswered questions.

'Tell me what is wrong with you. I'm your sister and if you can't talk to me, who can you talk to?'

Eileen's voice was full of the desperation her sister's condition caused inside her. She was frightened that this depression that was now a part of Kathleen's life and the fear of going out in the daylight was going to happen to her. They were twins and she was terrified that she was going to turn into her sister. No one seemed to care and everyone pretended it wasn't as bad as it really was.

'Please, Kath, talk to me…'

Kathleen leapt up, grabbed her sister around the throat and screamed into her face. 'Will you fuck off? Just leave me alone and fuck off! On and on and on… It's like listening to a cracked record. We look alike and that's it, Eileen, we ain't got anything else in common. Now leave me alone before I fucking really hurt you…'

Kathleen pushed her sister away then and climbing back into the bed she pulled the covers over her once more and said quietly, 'Close the door behind you.'

Eileen walked from the room just as Lil was coming up the stairs.

'What's all the noise?'

Eileen burst into tears then. 'She went mad, Mum. What is wrong with her? I was just trying to help her, that's all…' Eileen pushed herself into her mother's bosom.

Lil hugged her tightly. Kissing her hair, she said sadly, 'She is a strange girl but I don't know what to do with her. The doctor came in the other week and he said it's depression, as you know. She takes the Valium and she sleeps. I don't know what else we can do for her.'

'She needs help, Mum, more than she is getting…'

The bedroom door opened then and Kathleen stood in front of them. Her nightdress was stained with tea and Ribena and her feet were filthy, her toenails rimmed with dirt.

'What, Eileen, you want them to put me in the nut house, is that it?'

'What are you on about; I never said…'

'I ain't going nowhere. You try and put me away anywhere and I'll kill meself. I swear to God, I'll kill meself.'

Lil went to her then and, shaking her head slowly, she said, 'What are you on about? No one has said anything about putting you anywhere. But you ain't right, Kath, and if you can't see that then maybe you do need to go away somewhere.'

Kathleen laughed at her words. 'You make me die, all of you! Murdering lunatics all over the house and 'I'm the one with a problem…'

Eileen looked at her sister and then she slowly walked down the stairs. 'Fuck her, Mum. Let her do what she wants.'

At the bottom, she said loudly, 'By the way, sis, if you ever get around to smelling yourself, you know there's a lock on the bathroom door, don't you?'

'She's got a point, Kathy, you look like a paraffin lamp.'

Lil's voice was jocular, she was trying to lighten the situation as best she could.

Kathleen slammed her bedroom door and Eileen slammed the living-room door and Lil stood on the landing wondering what daughter she should go to first.

Donny Barker was a man of few words. He was also a man who, if upset, was liable to open a skull, a cheek or, in extreme cases, a stomach.

He was a violent lunatic and he had a reputation for tucking people up. North London was a no-go area for anyone he had a grudge against. He liked football, fighting, curry and spending the day with his mum, in that order. He had no time for women and no time for men either. Donny was an anomaly to everyone around him; the only person he was even remotely nice to was his mum. She was a small, bird-like woman called Vera with a loud voice and a smoker's cough. Donny worshipped the ground she walked on and the feeling was mutual.

As he sat in his mum's terraced house, he looked at the photographs around him, at the doilies on the table and the crocheted chairbacks and sighed with contentment. Lance Brodie was a weirdo. He had heard that he was and, knowing the same thing was said about him behind his back, he decided he almost liked him. He had also liked his approach and he was impressed with his nervous demeanour. He could easily work with him; he was sure of that much. Unlike his workforce he didn't look at him as if he was odd. He had been thinking about Lance's proposition for a long time and he decided he had no choice but to go along with it all. For the time being at least.

'Who the hell is this?' Scanlon's voice was trembling with fear, as was his whole body.

It was surreal. The whole of the evening seemed so unreal, it was like a bad dream except that he knew he wasn't going to wake up at any time in the near future. In fact, he knew this was going to be a new life.

'What's with asking all these questions? Who are you, the police?'

Everyone laughed.

Scanlon felt his bowels loosening and he knew that the old saying was true, you could literally shit yourself.

'What do you want from me?'

Patrick sipped his brandy and waved the other men from the room. Then he motioned Scanlon over to the table he was sitting at and said coldly, 'Sit down and shut the fuck up. Just listen. You ain't paid to ask questions, you are paid to make sure I ain't asked any questions.'

Scanlon sat down with relief; he wasn't sure how long his legs would hold him up.

He was slumped in the chair and Patrick liked seeing this man brought low; he had heard a lot about him over the years. He was a bully who made a big song and dance about everything. He had been known to brag about his criminal connections. Well, after tonight he would have him in his back pocket for always.

Bent filth could get away with a lot. Like any system, the filth tended to look after their own. That stood to reason; Pat knew it wouldn't do the public much good if they knew the extent of the corruption around them. He also knew that disposing of a body was something even a bent law couldn't walk away from, hence the evening's entertainment.

'His name's Jasper and he was asking for what he got, that's all you need to know. A long time ago he tucked up someone very close to my father and because of that he met a very untimely end. That happens a lot to people who annoy me.'

Scanlon didn't answer him; he wasn't sure what to say.

'He has been tortured, stabbed and shot. The shooting was just for a laugh, nothing more. He was well dead by then but I like the American approach, overkill, they have the right idea.'

Scanlon was listening, but he was not taking in anything of relevance.

'I want you to take the body away with my blokes and I want you to dispose of it.'

Scanlon knew he was expected to answer and he didn't know how to. What could he say to such an outrageous suggestion?

'A jam sandwich can drive anywhere, right? So I want you to get one round the back of the club by midnight; I know you use them for your own benefit. They call them Scanlon's cab service, don't they? So I figured that you might call a cab and dispose of Jasper, the wandering Rastafarian, as he was known. Then, once you earn your crust, that is to get shot of him, me and you can feel we have a rapport of sorts.'

Scanlon was snookered and he knew it. 'You worked for my old man when you were first on the beat and I need you to help me track a few people down and also find out a few facts that are relevant to my own investigation. I need a bit of help from you and, once I get it, you can walk away as if none of this ever happened. If you decide to annoy me, I will annihilate you.'

Scanlon didn't answer him. He could hear the music from upstairs and it was a record he had always liked. The sound of Gary Glitter's 'My Gang' was resonating through his brain as he sat in the dimness of the basement nodding like an idiot.

'Well, get a move on, you prick, you need to order a cab.'

Lance, as usual, was alone. He worked better alone and he was grateful to his brother for understanding that. He wandered Soho as always; he liked to walk the streets at night, watch the people around and see the different lives playing out. He walked around with complete anonymity; it was a knack he had, no one ever seemed to take any notice of him. It was one of the reasons he had been so aggressive as a child. Pat Junior always made his presence felt and people looked at him, listened to him and it was all effortless, completely natural to him. He envied him that, even as he was pleased that he himself could merge into any crowd and not be noticed. He had come full circle, he was back outside the club and he knew he was overdue for his meet.

As he walked into the club to meet Pat, he saw the doorman was chatting to the ugly redhead with the bad perm and the non-existent breasts.

'You fucking watching this door or what?'

Keith Munroe turned and saw Lance and he also saw one of their touts; a skinny Iranian with a cheap raincoat and a gap-toothed smile. With him were two Arabic-looking men and they were obviously very nervous at the turn the evening had taken.

The tout shrugged at Lance, telling him he was not to blame, worried in case he was going to be bawled out as well.

Munroe walked towards them, all smiles and camaraderie. The tout spoke to the men in Arabic and they nodded and smiled. Opening their wallets, they paid the entrance fee of ten pounds each in cash. Once the girl on reception had walked them through to the meat seats, Lance pounced.

'You fucking waster, you fucking ponce. You didn't even bother to clock their wallets, did you? How are they going to know how to bill them if they don't know what plastic they've got?'

Normally, as the entrance fee was being paid, the doorman would look inside the wallet to see what they had moneywise and cardwise. He would then write their financial situation down on a piece of paper, the receptionist would walk them to the seats and then pass the information on to the head girl as if it was nothing more than proof of payment.

This information was what decided their bill at the end of the night. It was the lifeblood of clubs like this, it gave everyone the edge. The hostess would be told the score and she would then have an idea how much to hustle them for. She would insist on the expensive champagne and order herself the gift-boxed cigarettes; these held fifty cigarettes and were the girls' staple of the night for their hostess fee. At least then, if the man was not flush enough for case, they had got something from him.

Keith Munroe was embarrassed. He wasn't exactly scared of Lance, he had his creds. But at the end of a very long day the man was Pat's brother and he had fucked up in front of him and all for a bird who was anyone's for a few quid and a few drinks. He arranged his face into a semblance of a smile and, walking to the door, he said blandly, 'Sorry, Lance. I was chasing pussy; you know what that's like.'

Lance knew that was a barb aimed specifically at him and he took it on board and filed it away for future reference. He went through to the club itself and, as he walked, he looked at everyone and everything and was aware that no one made eye contact with him. Least of all the girls. He knew that if they were wary of him then he would be seen as having a problem. Whores slept with anyone, anyone who could pay them or, in certain situations, advance them in some way. They should have been all over him like a cheap suit, not avoiding him. He knew that and he hated it; they seemed to overlook him and he should have had his pick of them. He should have been their lucky fucking charm. The head girl nodded at him respectfully and he inclined his head slightly, acknowledging her. At least she gave him his due, she knew who was in the frame and who wasn't.

Lance noticed a table with an empty champagne bottle and a very pissed-off punter. The hostess was sitting there with her arms crossed and she had a cigarette dangling from her lip. He stopped by the table.

'Everything all right?'

The man shook his head and Lance saw him sneer at the girl. She was very young with green eyes and badly cut blond hair. She was obviously a newey and even he felt sorry for her.

'What's the problem, sir?'

The man was feeling ambitious; he had on a grey pinstriped suit and his shirt was expensive though his watch wasn't. He had obviously drunk more of the champagne than the girl, that was part of her job, and he was about five seconds away from an argument.

'I asked you a question?' The words were spoken respectfully but with authority.

'I want to leave and she won't come with me. What the fuck did I come here for if I am going home on my own?'

Lance looked at the girl and raised an eyebrow in enquiry.

'So? What's the problem?'

She was absolutely terrified and the punter quickly picked up on that.

'Go on then, mouth almighty, fucking tell him.'

Lance pointed a finger at him and it was enough to shut him up.

'Come on, what's wrong?'

Everyone was watching them and she knew it. The hostesses were all standing by the dance floor like a flock of exotic birds. This was something that could affect them all and they knew it.

Lance was not unaware of them but he was concentrating on the punter and his arrogance. The man's disrespect was annoying him. The girl was only young and she was a bundle of nerves.

'I can't go case unless the man buys three bottles of champagne… He can't seem to understand that.' She pointed at the table holding the ice bucket and the empty champagne bottle. The ice had melted so he knew it had been there a while.

Lance looked back at the man.

'If you are in a hurry sir, we can wrap the champagne and you can take it to the hotel with you. But the girl is right, it's three bottles or she stays where she is.'

The man was just getting the courage up to jump on his high horse when he saw another man walking towards them. He was the double of the man he was speaking with and he suddenly realised that he was in deep trouble; that the man in front of him was not going to be in any way amenable.

'What's the problem, Lance?'

Pat's voice was friendly but the man sitting with the hostess could hear the underlying question there. He knew the man was being asked not to harm him in any way and he was being reminded that they were in public. He didn't know how he knew that, he just did. It was a learning curve, an introduction to the world he had chosen to frequent for easy sex and the feeling of being a player.

The girl was looking down at the table; there was no way she was going to look anyone in the eyes or engage them in idle conversation.

'This man is trying to stiff us. He wants this girl to go case with him and he doesn't want to pay for the champagne. I am just going to explain the situation to him, explain how the club works. I need to explain that we ain't a fucking charity for cheap cunts or fucking muppets.'

Patrick knew that Lance was on one of his missions, this happened periodically. He got a bee in his bonnet and nothing would be right with him until he had taken out his anger on someone. This man was not unaware that his life was in danger if he argued back or disagreed with the man smiling at him in such a friendly way. So that was a result at least. He just had to diffuse the situation and get Lance away.

'Pay the lady and pay her now.'

The punter looked from one brother to another then he took his wallet out quickly and looked at Patrick, saying loudly, 'Of course, how much?' He said it as if stiffing her had never entered his mind.

'Forty quid. Now.'

The punter gave the two twenties to the girl and she walked away from the table as fast as she could without actually running.

'Now get up, pay the bill for your champagne; they take money and credit cards at the bar, and then my advice to you is to fuck off.'

The punter did not need to be told twice. As he got up from his chair, Lance grabbed him by his shoulder and dragged him physically through the club, past the girls and out the front door. As he landed on the pavement, Lance kicked him with all his strength in the kidneys.

Back inside the club, Patrick shook his head in absolute wonderment. 'You never manhandle a punter on the street. What are you trying to do, Lance, bring the filth in here? Legitimate filth who will bring us to the attention of all the wrong people? And what about his bill, eh? The bottle of champagne he drank, who's paying for that?'

Pat wiped a hand across his face and forced himself to calm down so he didn't cause any more trouble for them both.

Lance turned to the doorman then. He was still after a fight of some description and everyone watching was more than aware of that.

'You should have sorted that, you should have been in here and watching the tables.'

Keith had just about had enough now. For all that Lance was a big part of this life, he was sick of being treated like a fucking no-neck.

'That is the head girl's job, Lance. I resent you trying to fucking make me look a cunt. You might be his brother but I take my fucking orders from him, not you.'

Pat stepped between the two men and Lance knew that this was something he would have to place on the back burner. He'd wait until the time was right to finish it.

'Oi. Come on you two, what the fuck is all this about?'

Pat pushed Lance towards the stairs and walked close behind him as they went up to the office. He shut the door quietly and then he turned on his brother with more anger than Lance had ever seen before.

'What the fuck are you doing, Lance? You lost your fucking mind or what?'

'What are you on about? I was trying to make us some money; that cunt is always chatting up the hostesses and he ain't got the fucking nous to do that job.'

Pat held up a hand in a gesture of silence.

'You do not tell anyone what to do unless I expressly say so, you hear me, Lance? I am the boss of this outfit and that fucking includes you. Keith's all right and the Munroes are a fucking good crew. If you cause a war with him they will all be out of sorts and at the moment I can't afford for that to happen. So shut the fuck up and stop trying to cause upset where there ain't none.'

Lance didn't answer him, he just stood and stared. His face was, as always, expressionless unless it displayed anger or distaste.

Pat wondered at times if this man was even on the same planet as everyone else. Lance was his brother and he loved him but he was a loose cannon and, worse than that, he was devoid of anything even resembling human emotion. Except when it came to Kathleen that is; she was the only person who he seemed to care about. It was his one saving grace and it had saved him a few times lately, if he only realised that.

'What happened with Donny?'

'Sweet as a nut. The money was paid in full, of course.'

'Well, where is it then?'

Lance shrugged then, as if he was talking to a moron, someone without any intelligence whatsoever. It was all Pat could do not to murder his brother there and then.

'It's in the safe over there, of course.'

Pat nodded. He knew that if Lance had access to the safe then he was snooping all over the place and he made a mental note to have the locks changed.

'Come on, Lil, eat something.'

'I can't Janie, I feel like shit on a stick.'

They both laughed then.

'You look like shit and all.'

'I feel a bit sick.'

'Well, a baby will do that to you, Lil. I was as sick as a dog with all mine.'

Janie sat beside Lil at the kitchen table and lit herself a cigarette.

'I bet you couldn't believe it, could you?'

Lil laughed and her face looked young again, but just for a moment.

'Just my luck, ain't it? Another bloody baby at my age.'

'Look on the bright side, Lil. This one could be the baby for your old age. Years ago, if women had a late one, it was seen as a blessing. A child for your old age, a child to look after you and make sure you were all right.'

Lil sighed once more.

'I can't see it being anything like that, Janie. Kids nowadays don't seem to have that kind of tolerance. It's all about them, not anyone else.'

Janie shrugged. 'Well, you ain't done bad with the last lot, they seem to have got their priorities right.'

Lil didn't answer her. Instead she poured herself another cup of tea and, as she sipped it, she looked around the kitchen. It was looking much better than it had for years. There was a new fridge, a washing machine and even a dishwasher. Annie was thrilled about that. In fact her mother enjoyed it more than she did. Her mother was in her element, they were back on top and she was making the most of it. She even went to bingo so she could lord it over her cronies. Women who didn't like her now spoke to her because her grandson was out and back on the street.

Pat was a good boy, not that she had thought that for a little while. Until she had seen Jasper's body for herself, she had really believed it had been poor Jambo down there.

There had been so much death lately and it was bothering her, even though she knew it was necessary for her family's survival. That was the legacy Pat had left to them, to his sons, to her even. His insistence on working alone and making himself the only person who knew anything of merit, had caused his downfall. People had banded together and taken him down; they could never have done it on their own. His children knew that. Patrick especially, with his prison talk and his determination to find out the truth. He was his father's son in more ways than one.

The boys were honourbound to take back what they saw as theirs by rights and who could blame them after the way they had been treated over the years. They'd had to watch others make a fortune on what should have been their inheritance. They had been made to feel like second-class citizens knowing how hard it was for her to put clothes on their backs and food on the table.

She felt so bad at times. She knew her boys, even Lance, were doing everything for her, were trying to make things right for her again. But they didn't know, neither of them, that nothing could ever be right for her again. She also knew that was the excuse they used to justify their anger and their hate.

They might tell themselves it was for her but she knew, and deep down they both knew, it was for themselves really. She was just a good reason for the insanity of recent events. She also knew that she would defend them to the hilt, lie in a court room under oath and stand in front of them with a shotgun, if necessary. Although she hoped that it would never come to that. But it might do, nothing would surprise her any more.

Her mother's mantra over the years had been that they were as God made them. But she was worried that they were as she had made them. Not deliberately, but with the choices she had made over the years, and the mistakes she had forced them to live through.

She had created them. Together with her mother, she had created two men who were as dangerous as they were enigmatic.

Even Ivana was caught up in their thrall. But like any woman who was foolish enough to get involved with them, she was on a losing streak. She wanted to warn Ivana, but she knew it was a pointless exercise and that she wouldn't listen to her. No more than she would have listened if someone had warned her about Patrick. Life had a habit of repeating itself.