Topspin (11 page)

He reached for her. “Angie, I didn’t mean—”

“Don’t touch me!” He backed away, looking a little taken aback at the force of her anger. She’d never been able to stand up to him when he’d turned on the charm, and she took some satisfaction from his confused expression.

“It’s a coincidence, us finishing up here like this,” he said. “If it weren’t for that I would have stuck to our agreement.”

“But Paul chose to launch his career as a builder in this particular corner of the world.” She regarded him with a scathing expression. “Why do I find that so hard to believe?”

“He wants to see you.”

Angela’s breath came out in an angry hiss. “So now we’re getting down to it. I’m flattered that he’s gone to so much trouble to get up close and personal, but if that pervert comes anywhere near me, or worse yet the kids, then I really will expose him for what he is, regardless of what it costs me.”

“Don’t take Paul on.” Rod’s voice took on a hard edge. “You don’t know what you’d be getting yourself into.”

“I don’t care! Paul might think he’s invincible, but he’s failed to take into account the lengths a mother will go to in order to protect her kids. Keep him away from us, Rod.”

“So there is an
us,
then?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Paul has no particular interest in the kids, Angie. You’re just being paranoid. But he does want to see you.” Ignoring her warning glare, he closed the distance between them and took hold of her shoulders. “See him, Angie, in a public place if being alone with him makes you uncomfortable, and listen to what he has to say. He’s got a business proposition for you. No, no, it’s legitimate, straight up. And you might be pleasantly surprised by what he has in mind.”

“That’ll be a first as far as Paul’s concerned.”

“Come on, Angie, what have you got to lose? I’ll be there if you want me to be and I won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. Then, once you’ve heard him out, if you still don’t want anything to do with him, I’ll make sure he leaves you alone.” He paused, meeting her gaze and holding it. “And, if it’s what you still want, so will I. But you know, don’t you, that you’re the only one that’s ever mattered to me. The only one I’ve ever loved. The others don’t mean a thing.” He dropped his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. “Think about it, darling, and I’ll call you in a day or two.”

Angie watched him go, feeling close to despair. Where could she hide this time to avoid Paul? It took a moment for the nature of her thoughts to strike home, and when they did she reached for her glass and drained the rest of her brandy.

The time had come to make a stand. She couldn’t keep running away, so she’d dig her toes in and, if necessary, face up to Paul. Somehow she’d make sure he understood once and for all that she wanted nothing more to do with him or whatever grand scheme he had planned this time.

Chapter Five

J
ACK
S
TEPPED
O
FF
T
HE
H
OVERCRAFT
at Portsmouth and almost immediately spotted Charlie’s massive bulk among the people waiting to meet it.

“How you doing, Charlie?” He grasped the hand of his old driver and shook it with genuine warmth.

“Getting old and slow.”

“Never.” Jack feigned surprise. “Not you.”

“It’s good to see you again, Mr. Regent.”

Charlie showed few signs of the reduced pace he’d just complained about as he aggressively shouldered his way toward a black BMW parked on a double yellow. A parking warden bore down on it with an expression of sadistic determination. Catching sight of Charlie he wisely transferred his attention to the driver of an ancient Volvo who was taking too long to decant his passengers.

Charlie opened the back door of the car. Jack slid across the leather and was engulfed in a ferocious bear-hug by the man sitting there.

“Jack, it’s good to see you again, son.”

“You too, Cyril.” Jack extricated himself from his old boss’s clutches and shook his hand. “You’re looking well.”

“Looks can be deceiving. I’m surrounded by a bunch of fucking idiots.”

As Charlie steered the car away from the curb, Jack examined his old mentor. Cyril was a bull of a man, six-foot-four and all muscle. He must be close to sixty now, as salt and pepper hair and the network of deep grooves etched across his face attested. But he obviously hadn’t let his body go and Jack knew the same could be said for his mind.

“Present company excepted, I hope.”

“Why do you think I sent for you?” Cyril let out a long sigh. “Things ain’t the same any more. There’s no honor among thieves. Not like there was back in the day. You did the right thing getting out when you did, Jack.”

“I don’t have any regrets on that score.”

Jack listened to his friend’s litany of complaints and fond reminiscences about the good old days. Not that he’d considered them to be particularly good at the time. He’d bitched about things just as much then as he was doing now. Jack contributed the odd remark, half his attention focused on the passing countryside as Charlie drove them toward Cyril’s country pile outside Colchester.

Cyril had recruited Jack into the shady world of enforcement. As a fatherless sixteen-year-old, Jack nicked cars for a living and pulled off small-time robberies to show the East End just what a big man he was. He could see now that he was a disaster waiting to happen. Cyril told him later that something about him reminded Cyril of himself at a similar age. He took Jack under his wing, harnessing his perpetual anger at a world which had done him few favors, and taught him to make that anger work for him.

Even though Jack was no longer involved with Cyril’s organization, the two men still kept in touch. Jack sometimes gained information for Cyril in respect to his legitimate business interests, or helped out in particularly delicate situations that required diplomacy rather than muscle power, Cyril having an abundant supply of the latter.

When his old mentor had summoned Jack to the mainland, offering no explanation for his urgent need to see him, Jack’s curiosity was piqued. He had to wait until they’d settled into Cyril’s study, drinks in hand, before he got around to explaining himself.

“An old friend of yours popped out of the woodwork recently,” Cyril said, knocking back a healthy slug of single malt.

“Oh yeah? Who’s that, then?”

“I should say
friends
. Kevin and Wilf, to be precise.” Jack’s head shot up in surprise. “You should have followed my advice and broken their kneecaps, Jack. That’s the only sort of retribution thugs like them understand.”

“I thought my way was better.”

“Humiliating them, you mean.” Cyril chuckled. “It was certainly a creative idea, and still gets talked about when some of the old mob get together and have a few.”

“That was the whole point.”

“Yeah, but unfortunately they’re out for revenge now.”

Jack shrugged. “I always knew that might happen. But short of killing them, any act of violence on my part would only have upped the ante and it wouldn’t ever have ended.” Jack stretched his arms above his head, wondering why Cyril had thought this too important to discuss over the phone. But even Jack, who was closer to Cyril than most, knew better than to question his motives. “Making them apologize to Patel, pay for the restitution of his property from their own wads, and forcing them to do a lot of the repairs themselves made them a laughing stock. Everyone, even the filth, understood what I was doing and why, which meant that no one else would take them on after that.”

“You’re wrong there, Jack. They went up north and got taken on by the Turks.”

Jack, who had wandered toward the window, spun round to face Cyril. Not many things frightened him, but the vicious Manchester-based crew Cyril had just mentioned was a notable exception. In front of Cyril, who also had the sense to harbor a healthy respect for their northern counterparts, Jack didn’t attempt to hide his reaction.

“Christ, you never said.”

“Didn’t seem relevant until now. But they’re back on our patch, Jack. That’s why I wanted you to come over, so I could talk to you about it face to face, like. They’ve wised up and ain’t quite as headstrong as they once were.” Cyril grunted. “They’re still as thick as pig’s shit, though.”

“No change there, then.”

“Yeah, but the problem is they’ve put the word out that they’re looking for you. They’re throwing cash around, asking anyone who knows where you are to talk to them. They’re making out like you’ve been laying low because you knew they’d come after you sooner or later, implying you ain’t got the balls to face them.”

Jack laughed. “Who’s gonna believe that?”

“No one right now, but you know how it is.” Cyril spread his hands. “If they say it often enough, and you stay out of sight, then the mud’ll stick eventually. No one else knows why you did get out, remember.”

“It’s not as if I’m hiding, Cyril. You don’t have to be Einstein to find someone in this country when he’s living under his real name.”

“Yeah, well, like I said, those two ain’t exactly the brains of Britain. But still, it doesn’t do to underestimate them, Jack.” Cyril glowered. “I’ve put the word out that everyone’s to keep their mouths shut, but you know how it is. It’ll only be a matter of time before someone spills the beans, and I didn’t want you to be taken by surprise, like.”

“Thanks, Cyril. I appreciate the heads-up.”

“What are you gonna do about them, Jack? They’re hard bastards, and you can bet the fucking Turks ain’t exactly let them go soft.”

“I’ll deal with it, Cyril. I haven’t gone completely soft myself.”

Cyril guffawed. “You could have fucking fooled me.”

“Since you’re so sure they’ll find me eventually, perhaps I should save them the effort and confront them on home turf.”

“And then what?”

“Put the fear of Christ into them, I suppose.”

“That won’t work, Jack.” Cyril poured them both refills from a heavy crystal decanter. “They don’t respect reputations anymore and they certainly don’t play fair. They’re still smarting from their humiliation. They also didn’t like being banished from the smoke, blame you for it, and are out for your blood.”

“Yeah, perhaps they are, but what else can I do other than confront them? I ain’t gonna hide from them for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t rush straight in. Think it through first. Use that brain of yours, Jack, if it hasn’t turned to mush since you retired and put it out to grass. I imagine Ahmed sent them down here on some bit of business of his own.” Cyril stroked his chin in thoughtful contemplation. “I wonder if he knows what else they’re getting up to on his time.”

Jack chuckled as Cyril picked up his phone and dialed a Manchester number from memory. Ahmed and Cyril co-existed with wary respect for one another’s outfits. Cyril made no secret of the fact that he abhorred the flood of drugs that found their way into the country—courtesy of Ahmed’s contacts in his homeland—and wanted no part of that trade. They exchanged information on other aspects of their operations from time to time, and retribution on Ahmed’s part for any arbitrary action taken by his two goons would be swift and brutal. They’d unsettled the status quo by pursuing a personal vendetta on Cyril’s patch. That was a big no-no, as just about anyone in the business with two brain cells to rub together could have told them.

Jack reckoned they deserved everything that was coming their way.

Saturday morning dawned, and Chris Porterhouse had never been so miserable in his life. Everything had changed since he’d walked into his mother’s bathroom and seen her horrific injuries. His school work suffered because he could no longer concentrate and found it pointless. His social life, such as it was, had dried up because he couldn’t raise any enthusiasm to go out with his mates. In turn they’d picked up on his mood and got fed up with his monosyllabic responses when they voiced their concerns. Nothing in his life was going right anymore, and he didn’t know what to do about it or who to turn to for advice.

If this was part of the growing up process, then he never wanted to be an adult.