The Betrayed

Contents

Title Page

Dedication

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Copyright

one

T
he London train emerged from the tunnel and gave a final sigh as it came to a halt at the platform. The heavy door swung open and Rosie stepped inside, praying that the decision that she had made was the right one. A whistle blew and the train lurched forward as it pulled away from the station and picked up speed until it reached its natural rhythm. Rosie swayed from side to side as she made her way along the narrow corridor, looking for somewhere to sit. Finding a near-empty carriage, she fell into a grimy seat, tossed down her bag, and settled back for the long return journey.

Her mind was racing as fast the Kentish countryside that flew past the window. She leaned over, wiped the condensation from the glass and peered out over the green fields outside. She had never really appreciated the beauty of the countryside as much as she did at that moment: the vivid burnt-amber, russet, and gold colours of the autumn leaves were spectacular. It was so beautiful, she almost began to forget about the harrowing day she’d just spent with Johnny.

Johnny was not happy. He wasn’t happy at all. She had finally told him that she’d had enough – she wanted out. Johnny, as jealous and selfish as ever, had snarled at her, baring his teeth as he spat out a torrent of cruel words. They still rang in her ears… especially his parting shot: ‘Friends won’t go with you out of respect. Straight goers won’t go near you through fear.’

She had tried to explain, as gently as she could, why she could no longer visit him in prison. For five, long, grinding years she had trudged around the country. Five years of waiting in the rain outside grey prison walls. Five years of bringing up their daughter, Ruby, on her own. And the situation wasn’t about to change – Johnny was inside for 18 years. That meant it was left to Rosie to pay the hefty school fees, the mortgage, and all the other bills.

Watching her reflection in the train window, Rosie was horrified. She could almost see the life draining out of her, like someone had pulled a plug out from somewhere deep inside her. It was as if she was aging in fast forward: budding, flowering, blooming, then withering and dying. All before her very eyes.

She was still only 30, but she felt closer to 50… and probably even looked it, which was a bloody disaster when her career – or what remnants of a career she had – was reliant on her looks. Her dewy, porcelain-perfect complexion and sparkling emerald eyes had once featured in a series of make-up ads, and her dazzling white smile had, for a while, earned her a certain amount of success for its appearance in a toothpaste commercial. True, she’d achieved some success as an actress. Bit parts here and there, mostly. There was an episode of
Casualty
, a very brief stint in a minor sit-com, and a longer run in
EastEnders
… which is how she met Johnny Mullins. She had been introduced to him by a fellow actor at a glitzy party which Johnny was hosting with his brother, Eddie.

It had happened very quickly – too quickly, really. Like in the fairy stories she used to read as a little girl, Johnny, a knight in shining armour, had ridden into her life and carried her off, over the horizon into an world that she never knew existed. With his silk suits – hand-made in Savile Row, of course – and his Fratelli Rossetti, crocodile shoes, he was as smooth as butter and as slick as a whistle. He certainly had an aura about him; crowds seemed to melt away when he entered a room. When he approached, big, lumbering hard-men became suddenly light on their feet, stepping out of his way, and all the girls turned their heads. Still, Rosie couldn’t quite put her finger on what exactly it was about him that attracted her. His reputation, perhaps? His awesome presence? Or could she put it down to an animal instinct, something she sensed? That alpha male, leader of the pack, top-dog aura. Whatever it was, there had been an instant attraction. You can call it what you will, but she called it love.

A relationship blossomed, and soon they were engaged. The wedding was an extravaganza, a spectacular of flounce and cash-waving. In the world that Johnny inhabited it was, without doubt, the wedding of the year. The cream of the London underworld were there; gangsters from America flew over to pay their respects and enjoy a knees-up with their British counterparts.

It was a wedding reception with a difference, too. Only the very best was good enough: top London caterers, a bar stocked with every bottle imaginable, and cabaret acts were flown in from Vegas. Everyone was out to make a good impression, and, as the bride, Rosie knew that she would have to put on a bit of style. If there was ever a time for Versace, this was it. So she wore a beautiful, ivory-silk corset dress, decorated with thousands of Swarvoski crystals, with a train more than seven yards long. And, on her finger, a ring with 35 princess-cut diamonds.

An impressive range of Rollers, Bentleys, Mercedes, and a smattering of top-end sports cars, were parked bumperto-bumper outside the country house where the reception was held. Hefty gangsters lumbered out of their mobile status-symbols, shrugging their broad shoulders and pulling at their lapels to free the high-living fat from their tight, starched-white collars. The dress code was as rigid as any society bash. All the men were kitted out the same: tailored suits, crisp white shirts, top pocket hankies, chunky 22-carat rings on their pinkies. All the girls had, quite obviously, been lying on sunbeds and sitting at the hairdressers with rollers in, after getting their roots done. At an occasion such as this, they wouldn’t dream of arriving without the full works: high heels, dangly gold jewellery, lashings of lipstick, powder and paint. This was a wedding to be seen at.

A 300-strong army of guests slurped Cristal champagne and munched on canapés served on golden platters. Anyone who was anyone had turned out for the man himself, Johnny Mullins… and the new Mrs Mullins.

Over the following year, Johnny and Rosie’s journey was full-on and in the fast lane: a new house in a fashionable part of Islington, a hedonistic lifestyle of clubs, money, fast cars, Cartier this, Gucci that…

She wanted for nothing and was swept off her feet by her new husband, much to the disapproval of her Aunt Madge. Over a cup of tea one Sunday, she warned Rosie: ‘Watch him. His eyes are too close together.’

But Rosie had just laughed. She loved her auntie, but she didn’t know Johnny like Rosie did. Besides, she enjoyed the attention and respect that came with being married to such a high-profile gangster. She was having a ball, the time of her life.

The only fly in the ointment, from her point of view, was Johnny’s twin brother, Eddie; now,
his
eyes definitely
were
too close together. Eddie was as slippery as a box of frogs. He was so full of hate, like he had a great, gaping hole in the middle of his heart, and he could never inflict enough pain to fill it up. When Johnny and Eddie were together – which was most of the time – Johnny took on a different persona, one that could only be described as dangerous, intimidating, and all-out menacing. All they talked about was business, business, business… like it was all they lived for. Of course, Rosie never asked Johnny about what he did, and he never told her. It was an unspoken thing between them. ‘So long as you got what you want, darling, that’s all you need to know,’ Johnny used to say, with a wink.

So that’s how life settled down… with Johnny, Eddie, their best mate ‘Hate-’em-all’ Harry, and the rest of their firm – all big men in big suits who spoke mostly in whispers, out of the corners of their crooked mouths. Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays were spent propping up the bar in the Tin Pan Club; Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays in VIP lounges in fancy clubs Up West.

Aunt Madge was always telling Rosie that, ‘Things that go up quickly, usually come down with a huge bump.’ And boy, was she right. Within a few years of the wedding, Johnny was so high on success – and, above all else, cocaine – that their marriage went from bad to worse. His growing dependency soon began to wreak havoc on his finances, looks, and, most of all, his mood. If he didn’t have his daily snort he would become angry, and, at times, even violent. It got progressively worse, until Johnny was frequently raising his hand to Rosie. It was becoming obvious that, under his gleaming armour, this knight was nothing more than a bullying, murdering thug. Soon, and so gradually that Rosie hardly noticed it, she had became totally under his control. Breaking away was simply not an option. Over the years, she had heard and witnessed things that nobody should have to experience, and she knew what he was capable of.

The only things that Johnny cared about was himself and his bloody psycho brother, Eddie ‘Mad Dog’ Mullins. Rosie had become weary of the never-ending threats and ongoing violence, the uncertainty that came with living life on a knife edge. But, by that stage it hardly mattered what she thought, because it was perfectly clear that Johnny’s cocaine habit had grown into a full-on addiction.