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Chapter Five

Lil was bone-weary, but she tidied the place up anyway. Her home was everything to her; it made her feel safe, it was the place she felt she could finally relax in. It was important to her that it was a calm, clean and quiet oasis, especially now that she was pregnant. Even more so when her old man was on the missing list.

She tried to phone through to all his known haunts, and once again she was met with either a continuous ringtone or an engaged signal, which told her the phone in question was off the hook. She knew better than to phone certain pubs and watering-holes because it would then have alerted people to what could be a serious situation. Until she knew the score, she knew she had to be circumspect.

His silence though, and the fact that no one seemed to know his whereabouts, was making her feel ill with worry, and she forced herself to calm down once more. Her belly was heavy, dragging at her whole being. Her fear and tiredness was making her movements sluggish, her back was aching and her eyes were red-rimmed with tiredness. She had sorted out the boys' room first, making it like a game, encouraging them to help and then settling them into their beds, all the time feeling the bewilderment and fright coming off them in waves. As young as they were though, they knew to keep their traps shut in front of Old Bill. In a strange way she was proud of that. Pat Junior knew where his father's gun was, he could have tracked it down like a bloodhound if the fancy took him. They often joked between themselves about how many times it had been hidden away and how many times young Pat had found it. The filth had got nowhere near it tonight, and this was a small victory for her. It gave her a little gee-up, made her feel they were still in control. The frightening thing was, until Old Bill turned your place over in front of your kids, and more importantly with what seemed like a good reason, you never really quite understood just how precarious your life actually was. Being left without a bread-winner and a father for your children, a protector, never crossed your mind. When the filth showed up, the precariousness of your situation hit you in the face with the force of a speeding car.

Now, with a belly full of arms and legs, two boys dependent on her, and an old man she loved so much it hurt her, Lil felt the cold hand of fear patting her on her back. It was warning her, making her start questioning all the things she had taken for granted. Like all villains' wives, she had received her first real wake-up call. Tonight wasn't the usual half-hearted assault by the filth to make it all look good on paper, this was serious. Her husband, the father of her kids, was likely on the wrong end of a capture; if it all went pear-shaped he could go away for so long he would be a grandfather before he came home. Judges were handing out outrageous sentences these days, the short sharp shock was a thing of the past; this new government was all for burying the fuckers and forgetting them.

Once more Lil was reminded of the fact that she had no real dosh, no hard cash, nothing to call her own. Pat controlled it all, as he should. But the seed was sown now, and that would have to be addressed sooner rather than later. When, and if, he came home, she was going to make sure she was never left in this position again.

She kissed her boys and watched as they settled themselves down in their now tidy bedroom. They were calmer now, drinking their drinks and chatting between themselves as usual. The first shock was over with, normality was gradually being reinstated. Something inside was telling her that they should have been more bothered by the night's events, but she pushed these thoughts away. Kids were resilient.

If Pat had a capture, he had a capture. There was nothing she could do about it, but the thought terrified her. Her heart was racing at that thought and she breathed in deeply, knowing that she could easily dissolve into hysterics at any moment.

She forced herself to concentrate on the job in hand. The sitting room was destroyed. They had even taken the seat cushions off the sofa and split them open with a knife; the stuffing was everywhere and the tears stung her eyes as she cleared it all away.

She still had not heard a word from Pat and she was getting more and more agitated by the minute. She checked her purse and realised that she had less than eight pounds to her name. If Pat was nicked, or worse, she had no access to his money at all. Her mother's voice came back to her and, as much as she hated to admit it, the old bitch was right. Pat should have set her straight in case he was nicked. She needed access to money, not just for his brief, but for the daily business of living with a young family and the expense that children brought with them. These were desperate times, and desperate times meant desperate measures.

A little voice, though, was telling her that she was entitled to his money anyway, she had eight fucking quid and a family to feed. Why didn't she have a stash? Why was she dependent on him for everything when she had a fucking growing family? More to the point, why hadn't Pat thought to make provision for them? Plan fucking B was what he always referred to when discussing work, it was for when Plan A fell out of bed. And here she was with nothing, not a Plan A, let alone a Plan B. Not a brass razoo to her bastard name. She was shaking with fear for him and fear for herself and her family. Anger kept her going. She was still cleaning up when her mother arrived, all brown teeth, lavender cologne and pretending a concern she was not capable of feeling.

She let Annie give the boys their breakfast because she had no heart to do anything except sit and feel her baby kicking as if it was reminding her that it was there. Another mouth to feed on eight poxy quid. Throughout the day young Pat stuck to her like shit to a blanket but Lance acted as if nothing was amiss.

Annie had the nous to keep her beak out and silence the questions that were hurling themselves around her head. The neighbours were vocal about the raid; speculation was rife as always and the dolt she called a daughter had not uttered one word about any of it. She could see that her daughter was not in the mood for a full and frank discussion of any description. Her daughter's plight affected her not one iota; she was there for no other reason than accruing some Brownie points. With them she could gain access to her Lance. Without that child her life was meaningless; her feelings for him were so strong she felt them as a physical force. She would endure anything to be near him, and do anything to keep others away from him.

Love was a strange emotion. It was something she had never felt before, or felt the need to express in any way. She saw herself in him, and that was enough to make her feel that finally her life was worth living.

Dwyer was trembling so much that he couldn't light his cigarette. Pat leaned over and struck a match, holding it out for him, watching him trying to inhale and make the cigarette work at last. His three attempts left them all embarrassed and the room was heavy with tension. Dwyer's breathing was loud, even to his own ears, and his actions were unnatural and overly dramatic. He looked what he was.

Patrick grinned at him in a friendly manner. 'You all right, mate? You on the gear as usual?'

Dwyer smiled then. His wrinkled face was suddenly familiar, his hangdog look back, he could have been a favourite uncle. Pat felt a smidgeon of sorrow for him. He was a product of circumstances, as they all were. The bloke Pat thought was filth was watching them nervously, but in fairness he was calm enough to get away with it. Patrick, however, was relaxed. Sitting back in the chair, he waited until Dwyer was puffing away on his Embassy before he spoke. 'Who are this lot? I think an introduction is on the cards, don't you?'

The suspect filth looked him in the face then and Pat smiled gently once more.

'We're friends of Freddie's…'

Pat pointed a finger at the suspect filth without looking at him directly, he was now leaning once more across the table staring into Freddie's eyes, but talking to the other man. 'Who gave you permission to address me, you cheeky cunt?'

Freddie was terrified again, this was not what was supposed to happen. Pat wasn't supposed to be like this, cocky and spoiling for a straightener. It was Pat who was supposed to be caught on the hop. Freddie was not geared up for this behaviour at all.

'You shut the fuck up until I speak to you directly, OK? You are a no-neck, a fucking ice-cream, a nothing.' The violence behind Pat's eyes was barely hidden, everyone was reminded of just how slippery he could be, especially when he thought he was being mugged-off.

Pat had a reputation and the people in the room had conveniently forgotten it because as a collective they had assumed they would be the stronger. Pat had just reminded them of how big a mistake an assumption could turn out to be.

The filth was unsure how to react to Brodie. He knew though that he had been tumbled. Pat snapped his head round to look at the man, his eyes were dead now, he was in work mode and anyone who really knew him would be seriously worried. Pat was capable of anything when he felt even remotely threatened, extreme violence was how he had attained his position in the first place. Tonight he was not going down without taking this lot with him, and they were now all aware of that. He planned ahead and he thought on his feet; he was ready for whatever these pieces of shit were intending to lay on him. So when he smiled once more it was with a chilling certainty that he would be the victor no matter what happened.

'Two fucking deaths and you are here with strangers, Fred, fucking strangers. Suspect strangers at that.' He looked at Dwyer again, his voice high with utter contempt, not only for them but for the situation they had all found themselves in.

'Have I got cunt tattooed on my fucking forehead or what?' Pat held his arms up in a gesture of supplication. It was overly dramatic, and it was also a warning that he was playing with them, enjoying the moment.

Dwyer puffed furiously on his cigarette, not even attempting to justify himself and, more to the point, not trying to even introduce his new-found friends. He knew it was over, he knew they were finished. His terror was now communicating itself to the other men in the room.

Patrick started to laugh. He could feel the power flowing into him, knew he had them on the hop. He was an unknown quantity, all they knew of him was his reputation, none of them had experienced him first-hand. Pat was more than a handful when the fancy took him, and the fancy was on him tonight, he could feel the menace inside him desperate to be unleashed. He was actually enjoying himself. He was willing to go away to avenge this fucking atrocity, and go away for a long time. This was an out-and-out fucking liberty of Olympian standards and, because of that, he was not going to swallow his knob. He wanted blood and retribution and he was determined to get it, no matter what the personal cost might be.

'I came here to try and make some kind of fucking sense out of the deliberate and wilful dereliction of your fucking duties. You had a tug and you fucking sold us down the river, you treacherous cunt. You are the cause of two good men being outed, and the most heinous crime of all is that none of you thought that I might have cottoned on, that you thought I was too thick to suss this lot out? Is this the best you could fucking do, the best you could come up with?'

He laughed once more, and pointed at Dwyer. 'Him? You relied on him? Fucking Freezing Freddie? And you are the so-called Sweeney Todd, the scourge of the criminal classes? Oh fuck off!'

There was no anger in his voice now, just righteous indignation, sarcasm and a smattering of honest disbelief. 'You're a fucking joke.'

The suspect filth was a big lad, he had broad shoulders, but the soft, pudgy body of a lazy man. Like most plain-clothes filth he had never really worked at anything since promotion; he relied on other people to make his cases for him. He was dependent on grasses like Dwyer and statements from the general public. In short, he chased rumours, gossip and idle chit-chat. His mentality was such that he actually thought that a man like Pat Brodie could be brought to book. Would roll over because they might have garnered some information that could put him away. He did not have the experience or intelligence to see that a man like Brodie would go down for a twenty-stretch without letting them hear one of his farts, let alone anything that would incriminate anyone else.

Took, Pat, you got this all wrong… We want you with us…'

The suspect filth had finally spoken, was trying to get him onside, actually thought he would roll over and grass on his mates. The man had a deep voice, a pleasing voice in fact; it had an underlying lilt to it, Welsh maybe. He was playing at the London accent though, so many CID and Flying Squad were guilty of that. They thought it made them seem harder and more on the ball. These upper working-class boys from the Home Counties now saw themselves as the new and improved Z Cars. Patrick looked around the table and sighed in disappointment. This was the legendary Sweeney? He had seen harder nuts in his Christmas stocking. There was even a television programme about them and, after tonight, he could only assume it was a fucking comedy.

Too late, the suspect filth realised he had said the wrong thing. He was still secure enough in his job to believe that even if Brodie didn't play the game he would not have the nerve to do any real damage to them; after all they were Lily Law, when all was said and done. He was wondering, though, if Brodie might be tempted to wallop one of them, just to prove a point.

'Who're you calling, Pat? How dare you attempt any kind of familiarity with me?'

The room was now steeped in animosity and righteous indignation; Patrick's natural-born hatred of any kind of authority was in evidence and he was offended, really offended. Then, from underneath his coat, he produced a machete. He brandished it with relish, watching the men around him as the realisation of their situation dawned on them. Spider and his Jamaican cousin were standing in the doorway, their own weapons, a scythe and a Japanese samurai sword, clearly visible.

The three men at the table finally understood that they were in grave danger and the fact that they were part of the establishment guaranteed them nothing from the bunch of psychopaths looking at them with excitement in their eyes and malice in their hearts.

Standing up, Patrick brought the machete down with all the force he could muster, on to Freddie Dwyer's head. Spider and Pat laughed out loud as they systematically hacked him to pieces, the blood splattering on to the scandalised faces of the Old Bill as they awaited their turn, making it all the more hilarious.

A lesson was administered swiftly and with the maximum of brutality. It was a lesson well learned by everyone who had to deal with Patrick Brodie from that day on.

He had gone from hard nut to headcase overnight, and it was a well-planned, well-executed and deliberate ploy to ensure that anyone who had dreams of grassing him up would remember that Dwyer, and the Old Bill he had been fool enough to associate with, had been sentenced to death without any repercussions whatsoever.

Lil was lying on the sofa trying to get comfortable. Her belly was tight once more, and the devastation of her home was still in evidence. She had put everything back as neatly as she could, but the police had done a thorough job inasmuch as most of the soft furnishings would have to be replaced.

She took a few deep breaths and tried to calm the beating of her heart, which was pounding inside her breast with such force it was almost painful. She still had not heard anything from Pat and the time was crawling by. Every time she looked at the clock on her mantelpiece it seemed that an hour had passed, but in fact it had been only minutes. Her mother was still in with the boys and she blocked out the thoughts that were crowding her mind. Her belly was tightening once more and she knew on some level that she was in labour.

However, the pain was nothing she couldn't handle and her mind was still racing and reliving the last few hours. She lit a cigarette and pulled on it deeply, the nicotine hitting her brain and making her feel dizzy. The second draw was better and the third eased her nerves. She looked down at herself and saw the movement of her belly that she knew heralded the arrival of a new person into the world. It was early and she was too tired to make a fuss.

If Patrick had experienced a capture it might be eight or even ten years before he came home to her and his kids; it was a sobering and frightening thought. She felt so alone and so vulnerable, and all she kept focusing on was the fact she had only eight quid to her name.

Eight poxy quid and a new child fighting for its place in the world. What the fuck was she going to do?

Spider and Pat were in a house just off the Railton Road. They were soaked with blood and still on the high that often followed a bout of extreme violence.

Dicky and the Williams brothers were over the moon at the retribution Pat had doled out in their names. Dicky had been disappointed that he had missed out on the shenanigans but he was also secretly pleased that no one could put him or his brothers anywhere near the crime scene. Dead filth tended to cause serious aggravation, even bent dead filth. His brother's untimely demise had hit them all hard and he knew that Pat's logic for keeping this away from them was the act of a good mate. Their boat races would be the first in the frame and they had genuinely been somewhere else, so they had the perfect alibi.

They were now pouring drinks and assuring each other that if the filth had any intention of feeling their collars it would have happened already. Pat knew, as Spider knew, that the filth were taking time to lick their wounds, especially the ones they had something on. They would regroup at some point, that was human nature, but at this particular moment in time the Old Bill felt it was better to retreat, smile and nod, wait till the time was right then, when they were at their weakest, they would come for them mob-handed. Until then, fuck them! The murder of young Terry Williams had not been a smart move and the up-and-coming young Face they had bought with promises of aggrandisement was now the most wanted Face in the Smoke, for all the wrong reasons, running scared and, suddenly, without any protection whatsoever. Jamie the Book's death had barely registered on the Richter scale of criminal London, so even that had not given the Flying Squad anything that they could use against the Williamses or Brodie. It was a catastrophic fuck up but lessons had been learned.

In reality, anything that had been gained from the whole sorry business was in Brodie's favour; he was the new king of the swingers and the bent police he had gathered made him a no-go because he had been astute enough to buy only the best. As his mum had always told him, you get what you pay for and how true those words had turned out to be.

Spider had been a good mate to Pat over the years but he had made a life-changing choice this night: he had chosen Pat over the guaranteed protection of filth. If he had gone along with Dwyer, he would have been given a free rein to serve up his puff with no hassle whatsoever. But, like Patrick Brodie, he would rather take his chances in their world than live under the protective umbrella and sickening stench of Old Bill.

Patrick was filled with enthusiasm now: as he had showered the blood from his body he had relived the feelings of excitement that the night had created inside him. That he had enjoyed the violence so much made him question everything about himself; he had watched Dwyer die slowly and painfully and he had been fascinated by it. As the others had waited for their turn, he had observed their absolute terror, could smell the fear emanating from their pores. As he had remarked to Spider, it was absolute power; the knowledge that you chose whether someone lived or died was the greatest buzz of all. It was their horror and the realisation that they were in over their heads that had made him feel so good, that had made him prolong the agony of Dwyer so he could enjoy their fear, feed off it and make it work for him, for his benefit.

Now he was calming down he waited for the feelings to disappear, but they didn't, and he knew that he had awakened something inside himself that had been waiting to escape for years. He was his father's son, his mother's child and he knew now that he had a hard streak running through him that made him immune to other people's suffering; at least the people who thwarted him.

He was determined to use that to his advantage. After this little debacle he was going to make sure he was never again in a position of weakness; if extreme fear kept him safe then that was fine by him.

He had put the word out for information on the whereabouts of the shooter. Once he had a reliable lead and wiped him out, the whole episode would be closed once and for all. He was sending out more messages than the GPO, and anyone with half a brain would take heed. Patrick Brodie was not a man to cross, even filth had learned that lesson the hard way.

Lil opened her eyes and quickly closed them again. It was early in the evening and the sun was bright in the hospital room. She was still unable to relax, still worried about Patrick. Not a word, and no one seemed able to track him down. All through the delivery she had been on red alert for a message to say he was outside, a word from someone, anyone, to tell her that he was OK and still on the out. But no one seemed to have heard from him and no one seemed bothered about his disappearance.

A thin mewling brought her bolt upright and she smiled into the cot placed beside her bed; two perfectly formed little girls lay side by side, identical in every way. Despite being early, they were healthy, robust children with well-rounded limbs and thick curly hair.

Twins. The sheer enormity of their birth was overwhelming her. No one had detected a second baby, no one had been prepared for the second birth and no one could love them more than she did. It was a revelation that, even in her terror of what the next few hours might bring, a fierce determination to protect them was foremost in her mind.

Pat would be over the moon, she knew, when he eventually found out about them. It had been the most eventful night of her life and having to keep up the pretence that everything was OK, lying that her husband was working away and couldn't be contacted, was taking its toll on her.

She had to spend ten days in this poxy bed but until she knew what was going on with her old man, she knew that the sleep her body was crying out for would not come. If and when he finally turned up she was going to launch him into outer space. That thought made her feel better for a while.

Laina Dawson was seventy-two years old and had moved out to Southend fifteen years earlier with the GLC and the slum clearance. Her two daughters and her youngest son were still in the Smoke and she saw them often, but to have her grandson, her Leonard, named for his dead grandfather, living with her was as close to heaven as she thought she was ever going to get.

His nerves seemed to be getting the better of him though and she believed, as did his mother, that the sea air would soon have him back on his feet. Good home cooking and a few weeks' watching telly with his old nana would soon put the colour back into his cheeks.

'Fancy coming to bingo, love?'

Lenny forced a smile and shook his head, his resemblance to his errant father all the more striking since he had shaved his hair off.

It was the only thing about this boy she found difficult to like, his looks, he was his father's son in that department. He was that two-faced ponce all over again but, as luck would have it, that was where the similarity between them ended. Unlike his old man, he was a kind, decent lad with good manners and an amiable way about him.

The rumours going round that he was involved with criminals she shrugged off as nonsense. He wasn't a violent thug and anyone who said otherwise was a liar; as she was always telling him, people were jealous. What they had to be jealous of she had never explained, but that had been her answer to all her children's complaints since they were babies. It never occurred to her that they might have been at fault, it was always everyone's jealousy of her perfect brood.

Now she had her grandson here, only because he was in some kind of trouble, and she was once more making up excuses for him. He was young and foolish, he would learn. The pungent tobacco he smoked made him almost catatonic and if it had been anyone else's grandson, she would have sworn it was that new cannabis stuff she had read about in the papers. Not her boy though, he was above all that.

As she got ready to go to bingo she chatted to him, ignoring the fact that he hardly registered her existence. She was lonely since her old man had passed and even though she would die before admitting it, she was making the most of having someone to prattle on to. The boy did look rough though. He was white-faced, and he was sporting bags under his eyes large enough to fetch her shopping in. He was caught up in some kind of fuckery, she would swear to that, but what it was, she would not ask.

Overwork, that was his mother's explanation for his condition and Laina had not questioned the fact that, to her knowledge, Lenny had never actually had a job. They must think she was in her dotage. For all her talk about how good they were to her, Laina knew that she only saw her kids or their offspring when there was aggravation afoot or money was needed.

Lenny was a bright boy though, he made a few quid and had slipped her a ton for his little sojourn with her, so that wasn't too bad was it? As her old man had always said, it would all come out in the wash.

As she bowled down Progress Road on her way to the bingo she heard the screech of tyres that was becoming more and more prevalent in the area. Southend was going to the dogs, and she didn't mean the kind that raced at Walthamstow either.

As she crossed the road, Laina didn't see the three men slip up her pathway and enter her home without even having the decency to knock.

And she didn't see her grandson's face as he heard a familiar voice say quietly, 'Hello, Lenny.'

Even though he had known that this moment was inevitable, the shock still rendered Lenny speechless.

'Nothing like a bit of sea air, a nice little holiday.'

Lenny looked into the eyes of Pat Brodie and knew without a doubt that all that was left for him now was to die with some dignity about him, with a bit of self-respect.

When they told the story of his demise, as he knew they would, in their cups, boys together, he wanted them to say that he took it like a man. That he had held his hand up, wiped his mouth and accepted the inevitable. He wanted them to give him credit for his bravery, talk about him with respect. He knew that a good death would earn him some kudos for the future, even though he would not be there to hear about it. He wanted his friends to know that he had not begged for his life or tried to talk his way out of it; he wanted to go with his pride intact, no matter how ruthlessly Brodie decided to eliminate him. This was what was left for him now: Brodie saying that he died like a man, and Brodie would say it, would give him his due, and in their world that meant a lot. The fact that he was thinking about how he would be perceived after his death at twenty-five years old did not enter his mind; the fact that it was that kind of warped thinking that had brought about his early demise, did not enter it either. He had gambled, and he had lost. If he had won, he would not have any sympathy as the victor, consequently he expected no less for himself. He smiled halfheartedly, still the hard nut, the Face. He swallowed down his fear, a small part of him relieved that he would not have to wait for the knock on the door any more; the door had finally been opened and a peace was descending over him.

'Not here, mate, me nan…'

The boy looked like a child, his chubby face was open and he was more than aware of his fate.

Pat grinned and said jovially, 'What do you think we are, Lenny, fucking animals?'

'Fuck me, Lil, a pair of brahmas there, girl.' Her stepfather's voice dragged her from the sleep that complete exhaustion and two Mogadon from a worried nurse had finally given to her.

Lil looked at him with dark-rimmed, tired eyes and Mick knew that she wished him as far away as was physically possible. He felt the urge to smack her across her smug face, but he didn't, he was still playing the game. Still acting as if she was his daughter and he was a doting grandfather.

The twins though, they were beauties; even he was touched by their good looks and the perfect symmetry of their features. They were two peas in a pod all right, and he envied Brodie his family more at this moment than ever before.

The word had hit the street that Brodie had out-gunned the pretenders to his throne, hence this very public appearance at the hospital to welcome his new granddaughters. But as the man of the moment was nowhere to be seen, maybe the pavement talk was a bit premature.

'You need anything, love?'

She barely moved her head in denial and the disrespect was not lost on him and he grinned.

'I bet Pat is over the moon, eh, love?'

This was said with the confidence of someone who knew that her husband had not been anywhere near and Lil could feel the animosity coming off her stepfather in waves. There was an underlying sarcasm in his voice that told her he had heard something about her old man's whereabouts. He was aware of the Old Bill turning the house over; her mother would have seen to that, so she kept her expression blank, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of knowing he had rattled her.

The silence between them was finally broken by Mick's harsh cough. He broke eye contact and dropped his head on to his chest in a shamefaced manner and Lil knew she had unnerved him; for all his hatred and his bravado he was a coward, and like all cowards, he was also treacherous. She knew he would sell every one of them down the river without a second's thought if it gained him anything.

'Fuck off and leave me be.' Her voice was deep from a lack of sleep and emotion, and she was pleased to note that he left without a word. She was shaking again. It was over forty-eight hours and she had still not heard from Pat. That in itself was not unusual, he often disappeared, but he had to have known that they had been turned over. That she had been left to sort it while her belly was nearly dragging on the floor. He had to have thought of her condition and his boys, surely? The fact he had not contacted her made her feel abandoned, frightened and lonely.

No one seemed to be answering their phones either, and that alone told her that something was wrong, very wrong. Even the club phones were off the hook, so she had nothing and no one to allay her fears. Once more she felt the enormous weight of her worries lying heavy on her shoulders as she wondered where the fuck her old man was and why he had not been in touch. The ache in her breasts was nothing to the tight band of tension that was slowly squeezing her head until she felt as if it was going to explode. In a strange way, she hoped he was banged up, because if he was still at large it meant that he had not been bothered about them all; that they had not even entered his head.

Dicky Williams was getting out of his car with his usual jaunty air when he was shot repeatedly in the head and body. Lenny was obviously not the culprit, and no one seemed any the wiser about who it might have been. It was a head-scratcher all right.

It was too late for his death, that was the sad part, because the whole debacle was over and poor Dicky had been taken out after everything had been sorted, but no one seemed to have any knowledge about it whatsoever.

It was a tragedy, more so because the other Williamses were not capable of keeping themselves together without his strength of character. It would soon become apparent that Dicky's death, not Terry's, would be the catalyst that would bring the whole lot of them down.