‘How bad is the damage? I told the Old Bill that I needed to collect some personal belongings from upstairs, but they said it was too dangerous for me to go in there.’
‘It’s pretty bad. The fire spread from the store room into the club itself. It never got as far as the stage or the bar, but some of the furniture went up in flames. The firemen said that it’s not structurally safe any more.’
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake. I bet we’re gonna be closed for months. If that kid ain’t dead, he will be when I get my hands on him, and so will fucking Michael be for going out on the lash. I wonder who the kid is. Did Pete say how old he looked?’
‘He reckoned he was about sixteen.’
Vinny racked his brains, trying to remember if any of his enemies had sons or grandsons of that age. He couldn’t think of any off the top of his head. ‘Right, you wait here while I go to the phonebox. I’ll only be five minutes and then we’ll shoot up the hospital and see Pete.’
‘Who you gonna ring this time of the morning?’
‘Geary. I wanna know that kid’s name and find out if he’s alive or dead.’
George Geary was anything but happy when he was woken by the phone at five a.m.
‘What the fuck, Vinny! You have just woken my wife up. This had better be important.’
Vinny went back years with Geary. Before he retired, Chief Inspector Geary had pocketed thousands in backhanders. He still had pals in the force and would happily exploit those connections in exchange for a bung, which was why Vinny had rung him.
‘This is extremely important, George. Some kid burned my club down tonight. He was taken to hospital in a bad way. I want to know who the cunt is and if he’s still alive. I’ll ring you back in an hour.’ Without waiting for a reply, Vinny ended the call.
After visiting Pete and urging him to keep his trap shut about grabbing the boy’s legs as he tried to escape, Vinny dropped Paul off, then headed home himself. The club was insured for fire and contents, so he was well covered, but that didn’t include wages and he would still have to see Pete and Paul all right, plus a few of his other more important staff. He wasn’t too bothered about most of the barmaids as they were easily replaced.
Relieved that he hadn’t flown into a rage and ballsed the drug deal up the previous day, Vinny let himself indoors and poured a large Scotch. At least while the club was shut he would have plenty of money coming in. Knocking his drink back in one large gulp, he picked up the phone. ‘Well?’ he asked Geary.
‘You might want to sit down, Vinny.’
‘Why?’
‘Well, the boy was dead before they even got him to hospital. His name is Mark Preston. He’s Johnny’s sister’s boy.’
Thanking George for the information, a shell-shocked Vinny ended the call. To say he was stunned was putting it mildly. He’d only ever seen Mark Preston once, when he had visited Judy at home to instruct her to abort his father’s child. Mark had been a fresh-faced toddler then and Vinny could barely believe that, all these years later, the kid had come back to haunt him.
Pouring himself another drink, he collapsed onto the sofa. The flowers, the graffiti, his car being done over, the window being smashed, must all have been Mark Preston’s handiwork. And no doubt Johnny had been the one who’d put him up to it.
Wondering how Joanna would react to the news, Vinny tried to look on the bright side. At least now his mystery stalker had been identified, he could stop worrying about the safety of his family and looking nervously over his shoulder the whole time. And the little shit was dead, that was another bonus. Good riddance to bad rubbish, as they say.
Annoyed with himself for accusing his own flesh and blood of such terrible crimes, Vinny silently vowed never to disbelieve his son again. He also vowed that one day he would torture and kill Johnny Preston in the most excruciating way possible. Perhaps he should pull Johnny’s teeth out, chop his hands off, then set fire to him like he had Trevor? Or was there a more painful way to kill someone? Vinny smirked. He would have to do some research.
Summer 1980
Queenie Butler made herself a cup of tea and sat on the step of the bungalow. Vivian was still fast asleep in the bedroom and Queenie was glad of some peace and quiet for once. Since Michael had bought the bungalow opposite it was usually like Casey’s bloody Court with the grandkids running in and out.
Kings Holiday Park had changed for the better since Vinny had first purchased the bungalow in 1976. The clubhouse now had a posh upstairs to it, and Queenie and Viv loved nothing more than getting glammed up, then rushing over to the club early to ensure they got the best seats.
Coachloads of visitors would arrive from far and wide at weekends to watch the fabulous entertainment. The Drifters, Boney M, Les Dawson, Des O’Connor and Jimmy Jones were just some of the wonderful acts that Queenie and Vivian had seen, but being staunch royalists, nothing beat the evening a couple of years ago when Prince Charles and the Three Degrees appeared there. It was a royal charity event and Queenie and Viv had been so keen to meet Charles and have a photo taken with him that they had nearly pushed the poor prince over.
Seeing the next-door-but-one neighbour walking along whistling with his newspaper, Queenie darted inside. Her and Viv had nicknamed him and his wife ‘the notrights’ and both were sure that he was a pervert. He had a habit of standing in front of them while they were sitting in deckchairs with Speedo trunks on and his bulge on show. Viv had sworn she had once seen his helmet poking out of the top and vowed if she ever saw it again, she would chop the fucking thing off.
Queenie put the TV on, then turned the volume down. The news was all about strikes and unemployment lately and she found it bloody depressing. So much seemed to have changed over the past few years. Elvis Presley had died, Margaret Thatcher had become the first ever female prime minister, there was sod all worth watching on TV, and today’s fashion left a lot to be desired. Skinheads were the current craze and Queenie thought they looked vulgar. If her Vinny, Roy, or Michael had ever come home with shaved heads, Doctor Marten boots, tattoos or rings dangling from their earlobes, Queenie would have given them such a good hiding they wouldn’t have been able to sit down for a month of Sundays. Much to her disgust, Little Vinny was now a skinhead. He’d recently had his hair cut without his father’s permission and Vinny had gone ballistic when he had seen it. He had punished his son by smashing up his record collection and burning every single item of skinhead clothing he owned – quite right too, in Queenie’s opinion.
‘Morning, Queen. Nice day, isn’t it? How long you been up?’ Vivian asked.
‘I didn’t sleep well again, Viv. I got up at five. I was just sitting here thinking, ain’t times changed? I wish we could go back to the sixties sometimes. Apart from being married to Albie, life was good back then. Like a load of sheep youngsters are these days. They have to be part of a flock.’
‘Don’t you remember when your Michael was a Mod back in the sixties? Kids go through these phases. First time my Lenny saw a punk, he wanted to be one. It’s what youngsters do. Anyway, this isn’t the real reason why you’re miserable. You’re worrying about those boys of yours again, aren’t you? I know it’s difficult, Queen, but they’re adults now, and if you don’t stop fretting and start sleeping, you’ll end up in that funny farm where I was.’
Queenie sighed. Brenda had always been her biggest worry in the past, especially after Dean disappeared, but since losing three stone in weight and having her hair cut and dyed blonde, her daughter was much happier in herself.
‘I’m determined to get the truth out of my Vinny and Michael, Viv. They are definitely hiding something from me, and seeing as I gave birth to the bastards, I have every right to know what the bloody hell is going on.’
Vinny Butler sat stony-faced as he counted up the week’s takings. Once again, they were poor and even though bringing in strippers on a Sunday lunchtime had worked a treat, ever since Denny McCann, another known villain, had opened up a similar type of club in Shoreditch, Vinny and Michael’s earnings had dipped dramatically.
Vinny blamed a mixture of things for his and Michael’s misfortune. Their run of bad luck had begun with the fire, which had closed the club for four months. Unbeknown to Vinny, the insurance had run out so he’d had to pay for all the damage out of his own pocket. Michael had offered to chip in, but Vinny refused. It had been his job to renew the insurance, therefore his mistake. It was during that terrible time that Denny’s club had opened. Then, last year, there’d been a shooting inside the club. Mitchell Moran had not been the most popular of men, but when a gang of masked gunmen ran in firing shots galore and blasted Mitchell’s brains out in front of a club full of terrified punters, business had taken an almighty dive.
Checking out his appearance in the full-length mirror, Vinny put some Brylcreem into the palm of his hands and ran it through his jet-black hair. He still had that mafia look off to a tee.
‘Morning, bruv. Has Nancy rung?’
Staring at his dishevelled brother, Vinny shook his head. Michael was currently bedding one of the strippers and was spending more nights at the club than he was at home. He was also more than partial to a line or two of cocaine these days and although he never usually took it during working hours, Vinny knew he had last night. His pupils had looked enormous and he had been talking utter shit.
‘You look fucking dreadful, Michael. Have a butcher’s in the mirror, go on. Snorting charlie isn’t the answer to your problems – I should know, I’ve been there, bruv.’
Michael sat down and put his messed-up head in his hands. He had never got over losing Bella and had regretted his rash decision to end their short, but passionate affair every day since. He had tried to contact her a couple of months after ditching her, but her phone had been disconnected and, according to the new tenants in her apartment, she had sold up and moved to New York.
Nancy was still in love with him, Michael knew that, but even though she had now overcome her depression, no matter how much he tried, he could not make himself fall back in love with her. He adored his sons though. They were his pride and joy.
Vinny handed his brother a mug of black coffee. ‘You’ve got to sort yourself out for your boys’ sake. I know you see them during the day, but Lee and Daniel are now old enough to know that there must be something wrong if you’re staying out at night. Mum’s worried sick about you, ya know. She’s always grilling me and I can’t keep making excuses for you. Mum isn’t silly.’
Michael glared at his brother. Anybody would think Vinny was a saint, the way he carried on. ‘OK, I’ll come clean to Mum then, shall I? I’ll explain to her that one of the reasons why I’m so unhappy in my life is carrying the burden on my shoulders of how Champ really died. Wonder what her reaction to that will be?’
‘You nasty bastard! It was after you split up with Bella you started snorting, so don’t be blaming me.’
Michael stood up and glared at his brother. ‘It was a mixture of everything, Vin. Roy dying, Nancy’s illness, you burdening me with the truth about Champ’s death, the fire, and Bella. Because I’m not as vocal as you, you think I’m daft, bruv, but I’m not. I’ve known for ages that you are dealing in the shit you keep lecturing me about, so next time you fancy getting all sanctimonious on me, think again.’
When Michael stormed out of the office, Vinny slammed his fist against the desk in frustration. Everything seemed to be falling apart lately, including his once-lucrative business partnership with Ahmed. These days it was paying peanuts compared to what it used to, and Vinny knew it was due to the poor quality of drugs they were buying. He hadn’t trusted Hakan and Bora on sight, so should have gone with his instincts. Ahmed had even admitted recently that the strength of the cocaine and heroin they were purchasing had deteriorated badly over the years.
Picking up the photo of Molly that took pride of place on his desk, Vinny felt his anger lessen. Molly had turned three in May and had the face, smile and nature of an angel. The photo had been taken on her birthday and she was sitting on her favourite present, a rocking horse. Apart from having inherited his piercing green eyes, she looked nothing like Vinny. She had fair skin and a mop of curly blonde hair. She was such a pretty child that whenever he or Jo took her out, people would stop in their tracks just to comment on her beauty.
Vinny put the photo back on his desk and debated what to say to Ahmed. He was sick of being ripped off by Hakan and Bora and he was even more sick of his ever-decreasing bank balance. Vinny was a man of style and taste, always had been. He liked to eat, drink and wear only the very best. He also loved to splash the cash and made sure his family never wanted for anything. From the age of eighteen, he had supported his mum and aunt pretty much single-handedly. It wasn’t Michael who had paid for their new kitchens and bathrooms, it was him. And he’d been the one that handed over the two hundred grand it took to get the club up and running again after the fire.
Vinny picked up the phone. He was determined to buy his dream house in Essex before Molly started school, so the quicker circumstances changed, the better.
‘Ahmed, it’s me. Can you pop over to the club later? We need to talk, urgently.’
Little Vinny was standing outside his old school. They had expelled him last year for punching a male teacher and he now attended a new school, which he despised.
Walking up to a nearby car, he checked his reflection out in the wing mirror. He was a massive fan of Madness and the Specials and he liked to model his appearance on Suggs or Terry Hall.
When his dad had set fire to all his beloved clothes and boots in the incinerator in the back garden, Little Vinny had been devastated. What his old man hadn’t realized though, was how easy it was to steal money out of his pockets and shoplift these days. Many a time, he and Ben had paid a visit to Mintz & Davis in Romford. They would wear baggy outfits, take a dozen items into the changing rooms, then walk out with a pair of Sta-Prest and a Ben Sherman shirt under their own clothing. They would then celebrate their cleverness by drinking cider and sniffing glue.