Читать книгу The Hunted: A gripping crime thriller that will have you hooked - Kerry Barnes - Страница 14

Mike tapped on the car window, making Eric jump. ‘Listen, change of plan, we’re going to take Mrs Harman to Rye.’

Lowering the window, Eric screwed up his face. ‘What the fuck for?’

Mike was getting irritated with his brother. He expected Eric to be one step ahead and not have to explain everything. ‘Look. There’s gonna be a fucking war. Firstly, I want Mrs Harman out of the picture, and, secondly, with her on the missing list, it may well drag the Harmans out of their hiding hole. Got me?’ He tapped Eric’s face.

‘It’s a long way, Mikey. Have we got time for all of this?’

‘Eric, you move over. I’m gonna drive you and Willie back to the house, and then I’ll take Mrs Harman down to Rye.’

‘I think, Mikey, you’re best at home putting the plans in place. I’ll take her down to Rye.’

Mike sensed his brother was getting anxious about the violent battle they were planning to have, and he rolled his eyes. ‘No, Eric. Your moody face is pissing me off, and I don’t want her feeling uncomfortable, so just do as I say. Now, move over. I’m driving. Willie, you help her in the back and keep her sweet.’

Eric did as he was told, still with the strops. Mike turned the car around and parked directly outside the Harmans’ house. When Mrs Harman came into view, Willie jumped out, opened the door, and bowed. ‘Your carriage awaits.’

Doris smiled and hurried inside. She took one last look at the house that she’d grown to detest and made herself comfortable, whilst Willie took her suitcase and placed it in the boot.

‘All set, Mrs Harman?’ asked Mike, looking in his rear-view mirror.

‘Please, love, call me Doris.’

‘Okay, Doris. Now, I’m just gonna drop off these two, and we’ll be on our way.’

Once Mike had left Willie and Eric back at his house, Doris joined him in the front, and they headed to Rye. He thought about his own mum. She would never in a million years have sided with the enemy. What had those boys of Doris’s done to her that was so awful? He could only guess she’d been bullied. The house itself spoke volumes: the tired old kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the seventies; the woodchip wallpaper painted time and time again; even the kettle was a bargain-basement one. He would never have let his mum live like that. No, not while he had a penny would his mother live like a pauper.

* * *

Harry had stopped sweating by the time he reached Broadstairs. Paris was asleep, her head tilted to the side and her open mouth dribbling. He was pleased she’d dozed off; he needed to get his thoughts together. He glanced at his phone in the holder and felt anxious. Vinnie was supposed to contact Scottie and make sure his father had got their mother out of the house. Impatiently, he pressed redial, the last call he’d made to his father’s phone. It rang four times and then went over to voicemail. Paris stirred before settling down against the sumptuous leather interior. He then tried Vinnie’s number; luckily, within two rings, it was answered.

‘Harry, what the fuck’s happening? I ain’t heard a word from any of ya. What’s going on?’

Vinnie, a year younger than Harry, was more laid-back. He walked and talked more slowly than Harry. ‘I can’t find Farver. He ain’t at the old slag’s house, and he ain’t in the boozer either. Scottie’s on the missing list. So, I’m now on me way to Muvver’s.’

Harry bashed the steering wheel. ‘For fuck’s sake, what’s the matter with ’em all? Christ, when I get hold of Scottie, I’m gonna wring his scrawny neck. I left a message for him to call me.’

There was a pause before Vinnie muttered, ‘Ya don’t think the Regans have got him, do ya?’

Sweat again trickled down Harry’s nose and he was breathing quite deeply. ‘Nah … I dunno. Look, Vinnie, check Muvver’s okay, will ya? Do whatever it takes to get her outta that house and then try and find Scottie. Call me and let me know what’s going on … Oh, and watch yaself. The Regans may have someone plotted up.’

The phone went dead, and Harry took another deep breath. The vision of Travis popped back into his head, and he shuddered. He just hoped to God they hadn’t captured his youngest brother. He would never forgive Vinnie if they had.

* * *

It wasn’t until Vinnie pulled up outside his mother’s home that he began to have sinister thoughts and dread filled his veins. What he’d done to Staffie’s dog was wrong, and Harry had nearly throttled him when he’d heard. However, Vinnie had believed at the time that it was a smart move. Spotting the dog in the garden, an idea had popped into his head; he would show the Regans what the Harmans were capable of. Reality then kicked him in the teeth when Harry pointed out that if any of the Regans found him, they would no doubt do the same to him as he’d done to the dog.

He stared at his parents’ home and bit down on his bottom lip, drawing blood. Up until now, all he knew about the Regans was what his family had told him. Every member of the Regan firm had a price on their heads – a hefty sum payable to any member of the Harmans who brought a Regan – or anyone else from their firm – to their knees. At the secret family gathering, it was rammed home to them that the Regans and their firm were the enemy.

Vinnie had wanted to impress his uncle and to be the number one son in his father’s eyes. So, high on cocaine, he’d seized the opportunity to make his mark. Now he wished he hadn’t. After all, he couldn’t put the genie back in the bottle. He bit his lip again. This time he winced and shook his head. Every nerve in his body seemed to be on edge. He decided to drive up and down the street to see if there were any unusual cars in the area. Confident there were none, he parked down the road away from the house and hurried back.

As he entered the front garden, his hand gripped the Stanley knife inside his bomber jacket – his old faithful tool and one that he’d used many times to leave a mark on the offending opponent. On high alert, he snuck around to the rear garden and noticed the back door was open.

Without going inside, he scanned the kitchen and clocked the tray of cakes on the side, the smell of baking still lingering. He assumed his mother was still at home, and so he relaxed his shoulders and stepped inside. There was an eerie silence. Entering the kitchen, he suddenly stopped. His nerves spiked his senses, and he heard the faint tick-tock of a clock. Then, as he listened, he realized it wasn’t a clock but a dripping tap from upstairs.

‘Muvver!’ he called out. There was no answer. He called her again and waited. In nervous frustration, he screamed, ‘Doris.’ He often called her Doris – or more cruelly ‘Boris’. Assuming she was ignoring him, as she often did, he marched along the hallway and sharply poked his head into the living room, before he stomped up the stairs. ‘For fuck’s sake, Muvver, are you bleedin’ deaf or what? Answer me, will ya!’

There was silence except for the sound of the dripping tap; it was now really grating on his pricked nerves. In a flash of anger, instead of politely knocking at the bathroom door, he aggressively pushed it open.

Shit! A sudden gasp left his mouth, and he quickly stumbled back as if an invisible hand had pushed him.

‘Oh my God!’ he shouted.

His head was spinning, his stomach automatically heaved, and vomit shot through his mouth and nose. He choked and tried to take deep breaths, but it was impossible. The puke rose again, without giving him a chance to breathe. As he fell to his knees, his hands caked in yellow sick, he heaved again. His mind became so overloaded with images of what he’d just seen that he couldn’t stay in this house of horrors any longer. Yet still, he couldn’t breathe; his legs were now unable to move and his whole body felt an intense tingling sensation like an electric shock. He blinked furiously and shook his head, trying to pull himself together.

There, lying in the bath, with the tap still dripping, lay the mutilated remains of his father. His eyes still wide open, his mouth gaping in a twisted shape. It was an abomination. Large chunks of flesh had been hideously removed. His ears and his nose were missing, and strips of skin lay floating in the shallow pool of water that was not quite red, but obviously filled with blood. His eyes couldn’t take it all in at first. He wondered if he was dreaming or whether this must be a sick joke. For, there, lying neatly on the white cistern was not just the offending weapon – the family’s carving knife – but his father’s finger with the wedding ring still attached, the blood from which was trickling down the side of the cistern, forming a tiny pool on the toilet seat.

The walls around him darkened. Knowing he was going to faint, he tried desperately to hold it together. He kneeled on the floor, away from the grim scene behind him, as he sucked in an enormous lungful of air. He tried to steady himself, but before he’d even reached the top of the stairs, the light-headed feeling got the better of him. Down he tumbled, crashing his forehead against the wall, and there he lay on the bottom tread of the staircase.

Stunned and dazed, he remained motionless; for a split second, he thought all of this had been a bad dream. That was until he heard the tap dripping again and he knew it was for real. Still in a blind panic, and with a lump on his forehead now swelling to the size of a golf ball, he managed to get to his feet and run.

He left the house, knowing that he would never return. Eventually, he reached his car and almost ripped the door handle off trying to get inside. As he drove away like a man possessed, he tried to process the events he’d just witnessed and plan what to do next. His first thought was to phone Harry.

As soon as Harry took the call, he heard the terror in Vinnie’s voice.

‘Jesus, Harry, I’ve just left Muvver’s … Oh my God, Harry.’

‘Slow down, Vinnie. What’s happened?’ Harry heard his brother’s harsh breathing and held his own breath.

‘It’s Farver! Fuck me, he’s dead. He’s fucking dead. They’ve killed him. Jesus, Harry, they’ve fucking cut him up. In the bath, for Christ’s sake. Blood’s everywhere … It’s disgusting …’

Paris stirred, snorted, and fell back to sleep.

‘Are you there, Harry?’ He sounded desperate to keep his older brother on the line.

‘Yes, Vinnie. Christ … they fucking killed our ol’ man? I swear to God, I’ll have every single one of ’em.’

‘Harry, what shall I do?’

Harry was in shock, but then sudden anger surged inside him, working its way up to his head. He felt as though he was ready to explode.

‘You, Vinnie, you can do what the fuck you like. This is all your fault! I knew they wouldn’t let killing the fucking mutt go, and now look what’s happened. You are one useless prick!’

Ignoring Harry’s accusation, Vinnie begged for help. ‘Please, Harry, tell me what to do. They’re gonna come for me. I just know it.’

It was the final straw. This shit-for-brains brother of his had acted recklessly without his say-so, and now Harry hated the pathetic sound of his brother’s voice. ‘Where’s Scottie?’ he growled through clenched teeth.

‘I dunno. I came straight over to Muvver’s, like you said, and I ain’t heard from Scottie. Harry—’

Harry had had enough of his brother. ‘Just find fucking Scottie. Then, once you’ve got him, call me. Don’t fucking call me unless you have anything useful to tell me.’

Harry wiped the gathered beads of sweat before they ran into his eyes and stung him.

He was so focused on what had happened to his father, he hadn’t even contemplated his mother’s safety. He looked in his rear-view mirror and wondered how he was going to break the news to his sister. She loved her father more than anyone. He just hoped she would stay asleep until they reached Broadstairs.

* * *

Doris felt content soaking up the country views. Mike reminded her so much of Arthur that she felt at ease in his company. If he was only half the man Arthur was, then he was all right in her books. There were so many ‘if onlys’ in her life. The biggest regret was not waiting for Arthur when he went to prison. She’d received a message from Teddy Stafford senior that Arthur didn’t want any visitors or letters. She should have known, back then, that Arthur didn’t want her traipsing up to a grotty prison. Unaware that Frank had set him up, and was worming his way into her life, she succumbed to his affections. He got her drunk, had his way, and she was left walking up the aisle with her first-born due in six months.

She remembered seeing Mike as a baby. Arthur had met a woman, married her within the year, and they’d had their first child within eighteen months. There was no need for a newspaper in Bermondsey – the news travelled even faster than the new Eurostar service into London.

She recalled seeing Gloria proudly pushing her son around in a beautiful pram. Doris had been dragging her two sons to the shops, both with wilful minds of their own. Gloria looked like she’d stepped out of a magazine. She was wearing a red swing coat, with her hair immaculately bobbed and she’d even put on false eyelashes. With a spring in her step and her head held high, she strolled by, much to the admiration of Doris. Despite the small age gap, she knew Gloria actually looked ten years younger.

Gripped by sadness, Doris knew that if it hadn’t been for the lie Frank told her, she would have waited for Arthur. She loved him so much, and still did, even though he was married to Gloria. There were no hateful feelings towards her though; after all, she had done nothing wrong. They knew each other from the estate, but they weren’t on such friendly terms that they would stand and have a chat. So, they would find themselves nodding politely when they encountered each other – which Gloria did as she passed Doris.

Doris remembered that day like it was yesterday because more shocking was what she noticed after the woman had walked by. Doris was admiring Gloria’s new coat and the expensive shoes, and just imagining herself wearing them and parading her son around. Just as Gloria passed the pub, Frank, who was idling in the doorway, pint in hand, stepped out and blatantly flirted with her. Doris watched in horror as Gloria began to walk away but Frank grabbed her arm. Doris saw how difficult it was for the woman to shrug him off. She knew what Frank was like when he’d had a few pints inside him. He was a forceful, won’t-take-no-for-an-answer man. She contemplated walking in the opposite direction to do the shopping, but she couldn’t leave the woman like that.

‘Frank!’ she called out. He responded by letting the woman go and then strolled towards her, veering from side to side. She held her breath; she knew he was pissed and he wasn’t nice when he was drunk. But then, he wasn’t nice anyway.

‘What d’ya fucking think you’re doing, woman? You ain’t no fucking fishwife, so don’t act like one. No wife of mine shouts their ugly mouth off in the street.’

She hurried away before he got really nasty. She didn’t want the boys to witness it – not that it would have made any difference to them. Each of them, like their father, didn’t have a generous soul. All three were like peas in a pod: obnoxious, rude, and unruly. After she’d been to the Co-op and collected her Green Shield stamp-book along with a loaf of bread and a bag of flour, she wandered back along the street towards the pub. But as she approached the building, she could see a couple of the locals gathered outside. A car was parked across the road. There he was: Arthur Regan. He almost towered over Frank. All she could hear was Frank hollering through stupid slurred speech. He was pathetic. Arthur, however, dressed impeccably in a black suit and with his hair neatly cut around his ears, said very little. With ease, he grabbed Frank around the throat with one hand and with the other he punched him square in the face, knocking him across the pavement and into the road. Two of the locals tried to pull Arthur back, but he flipped them aside like he was swatting flies.

‘You ever even look at my wife, and I’ll find you and put you through a mincer.’

Towering over Frank, red-faced and irate, he snatched a pint of beer from one of the onlookers and poured it over Frank’s face. ‘Now, you little creep: keep well away from me and mine.’

As he stepped over the man, Arthur suddenly looked over at Doris. Holding his hands up and with a resigned shrug, he mouthed ‘Sorry.’

She could still picture him mouthing that word. She never did know if he was saying sorry for bashing her husband or apologizing for the life she was now living.

* * *

As they finally drove into the pretty, cobbled street, Doris gazed in wonder. The surroundings were as Mike had described – breathtaking. The row of cottages that nestled in among the stunning twelfth-century church gave the town its character, and the old-fashioned flowers – climbing roses and wisteria – which adorned the brick facades, enhanced the classic English feel of the place.

This would be her first real holiday ever. Her heart was beating fast like an excited child’s. She could just relax and enjoy the fresh air and wander around and do whatever she wanted, instead of having to jump to her husband’s demands or listen to her grown-up children with their foul mouths and brash ways.

Mike opened the boot and retrieved her suitcase. She watched him as he pushed the key in the lock and opened the door to allow her to go ahead. She gave him a smile that made her face come alive. It was then that he saw how pretty she’d once been, before being dragged down by her brood.

The inside of the cottage was much larger than she’d imagined. She stepped from the hallway entrance into a rustic lounge. As she looked around in fascination, she admired the huge open fireplace built in traditional brick, noting with approval the beams on the ceiling and the walls. A sumptuous three-piece suite laden with thick cream fleeces looked inviting. Doris could see herself sitting there in the evening with a cup of tea and her feet up.

Doris followed him to her bedroom, Mike carrying her suitcase. She went over to the window and had to stoop a little to properly view the cobbled street. She didn’t see Mike watching her from the doorway. He noticed how the sunlight was resting on her soft, rosy face. She seemed so much at peace. Sighing silently, he left her and headed downstairs.

He grabbed a pen and paper from the kitchen worktop and quickly wrote down instructions for the cooker and the boiler. He pulled the keys from the drawer and placed them along with a wad of banknotes on the table. The last part of the note read: Enjoy your holiday, treat yourself, and I will see you in two weeks.

Quietly, he left before she had time to thank him.

* * *

Before he reached the M20, he dialled Jackie’s number, expecting a different dial tone. He was surprised to hear the usual English one. The phone rang until it went over to voicemail. He tried again with the same result. His anger heightened.

‘Jackie, call me right away when you get this message!’

He was annoyed she hadn’t picked up the phone, and even angrier that it left him with a worrying thought. He remembered Jackie having the hump, but, surely, she would have followed his instructions? He cursed aloud. ‘Fuck you, Jackie!’

He should never have married Jackie, and if it weren’t for little Ricky, he would never have done so. Her cocky sneers and smart remarks riled him up, and now, by ignoring his calls, she was leaving him raging. He assumed she’d ignored him and gone to the hairdressers, or perhaps the tanning salon. At this very minute, she was probably rinsing the credit card on new clothes for Spain. He bit his lip.

He could still see his little boy’s face before Jackie shoved him into the car; his eyes were almost begging Mike. He hated that look; it made him feel so guilty. He detested his wife’s lack of compassion. She was one of those women who was obsessed with the material trappings of life – the complete opposite to Zara. A sense of guilt momentarily clouded him. In his heart, he knew his relationship with Jackie had been on the rebound.

Gripped by not knowing where his wife and son were, he wondered if the Harmans had followed them. His heart began to race, and he redialled the number. This time, it went straight over to voicemail. He figured she’d turned the damn phone off.

By the time he reached home, it was almost dark. The men were still gathered in his lounge, all except for Eric, who had left shortly after Mike’s departure.

Looking flustered, Mike asked Lou to call the airlines to check if all the planes to Alicante that day were full, because if they weren’t then his wife should definitely have been on one of them.

Staffie noticed Mike was looking anxious. This was a rarity; the only time he’d seen him with vulnerability strapped to his shoulders was when Ricky once had the measles and had been taken to the hospital.

‘What’s going on, Mikey?’

‘Jackie’s phone has a British dial tone – she ain’t in Spain. What’s worrying me is the poxy Harmans. If they followed her and have taken my son …’ His face reddened as he clenched his hands behind his head.

‘Fuck me, mate, that’s a long shot. Think logically. Jackie may have missed the plane or fallen asleep in the hotel. But I don’t think the Harmans are clever enough to kidnap your wife and Ricky.’

Mike took a deep breath. ‘But if they have … I swear to God, I will mutilate each and every one of them. Where’s Eric?’

Staffie looked at Willie. ‘I dunno, mate. Eric said he’d things to do and left.’

‘Things to fucking do? Like what?’ shouted Mike, now almost apoplectic with rage.

Willie shook his head. ‘He didn’t say, but I think he had the hump.’

Mike was about to explode again when his phone rang. He looked at the number. It was Izzy. ‘Hello.’ He sounded abrupt.

‘Mike, I’m just letting you know you now have twenty-four hours to have the Harmans’ heads on sticks, or I will deal with them myself. The Irish firm aren’t happy that their goods didn’t arrive. I’ve had to pacify that situation on your behalf. So, twenty-four hours, and then you, my boy, will be working for me. Just a reminder.’

Mike wasn’t in the mood to reel in his temper, nor to pay homage to the Izzys of this world. Accordingly, he snapped back. ‘You fucking listen to me. Right now, Izzy, you can shove ya threats up your arse. I’ve more pressing things to deal with. I want the Harmans alive and kicking with answers.’

‘Answers?’

‘Yes, Izzy. So, before you go hunting them down and blowing their brains away, I need to question them regarding my son. Now, get off the phone because I ain’t got time for this bullshit.’ Red-faced with anger, he abruptly ended the call.

Willie and Staffie just stared wide-eyed, mouths open. They couldn’t believe that Mike was so staggeringly reckless. No one, absolutely no one, got away with talking to Izzy like that – not if they wanted to live.

As old and small as Izzy was, his facade was merely a front; he gave the impression that he was just an inoffensive Jewish jeweller trying to make a few bob. But buying and selling hooky gear was only a little hobby of his. Really, he could give Mossad a run for their money. His primary business was with the Italians and the Colombians, as well as a few influential firms in Ireland.

Although half of the small firms in London, Manchester, and Hull were under Izzy’s umbrella, Mike had kept his own firm out of Izzy’s organization. That had been the case until the Irish arms deal was arranged. Now, he wished he’d never got involved, nor even clapped eyes on Izzy. He knew full well that if he refused to honour his promise, then the guy had the power to take over his manor and even do away with him.

Without warning, Mike snatched the heavy cut-glass decanter from the sideboard and hurled it across the room. The sound of the glass hitting the wall and splintering in all directions stunned the men into silence.

‘Calm down, Mikey, we’ll find ’em,’ said Willie.

Lou got off the phone and shook his head. ‘Sorry, Mikey, but all the planes that took off today had available seats. None of them were fully booked. She could have got on at least three planes.’

* * *

Zara sat opposite her father, with a deadpan face. ‘So, why do you want Mike Regan on your firm?’

Izzy peered up through his hooded eyebrows. ‘I know, Zara, about you and him.’

Her flushed face was a dead giveaway. All those years she had tried to keep it a secret. Remaining quiet, she hoped her father would elaborate.

He gave her a sympathetic smile. ‘I want him on the payroll … for security.’

She frowned. ‘Security? You don’t need that, do you?’

‘No, I don’t, but when you take over, Zara, you will. I know he would be the one man to take a bullet for you.’

Casting a questioning look, she asked, ‘Why act like you never knew? Why let me carry on stealing secret moments with him?’

Izzy was about to answer her, but she threw her hands in the air. ‘Oh, forget it. It doesn’t matter anymore. He’s married now and I …’ She paused, the words trapped in her throat. ‘I have a business to run.’

Izzy allowed a wide crooked smile to adorn his face. ‘Yes, my child. But you will need Mike Regan, because I will not always be around. And some people have bigger grudges than others.’

* * *

Mike’s phone rang; it was a number he recognized. He stared for a few seconds before he answered and wandered away from the men.

‘Zara?’

‘Yes, Mikey, it’s me, with a message from Izzy. I hope you realize that you only have twenty-four hours, or he’ll be on the case.’ Her voice was unintentionally cold and made Mike want to laugh.

The once sweet woman was now turning into a clone of her father. Unbeknown to Mike, the cold stares and the stern tone were gaining her a reputation in the underworld – she was Izzy’s daughter all right.

‘I told Izzy to leave off, and Zara, me little princess …’ His words were sarcastic. ‘You tell him, if he interferes and the Harmans go missing before I get a chance to find out what they have fucking done with my son, I’ll rip his insides out with a rusty fucking claw hammer.’

There was silence. ‘Mikey—’

He didn’t give her a chance to get a word in. ‘Zara, acting like some cool gangster doesn’t suit your sweet arse. Leave this shit to the big boys, honey. And didn’t you just hear me? These Harmans, they have my son. So now you can understand why I ain’t afraid to wage war on whoever stands in my way. So, if you’re the go-between, then tell Izzy that.’

A sudden feeling of hurt whipped through her, followed by annoyance. How dare he have a go at her? She was only trying to calm the situation between her father and Mike, but he had just made it clear how he felt about her. Feeling hurt and belittled, she retaliated.

‘And, Mikey, having an unchartered temper doesn’t suit your sweet arse either. I’m sorry about your son, but I would take Izzy’s words seriously, if I were you.’

Mike was about to have another go when the phone went dead.

She was right: he did have a temper. And, deep down, he knew he wouldn’t be able to control it, not while he believed the Harmans had his son.

He stormed back into the lounge. ‘Right, call the men. I want them plotted outside all the homes of the Harman brothers. I want someone in the Three Palms, the Cedars Arms, and the Jolly Roger. I want all of fucking South-East London hunting down these bastards.’

Willie, having snorted a line of charlie, stepped forward, his foot tapping and his eyes wide. ‘I’ll go and show me face in the Cedars. That’s their main drinking hole. I can’t stand the fucking landlord, the sly fucker. He may have the little scrotes hidden upstairs.’

Mike could see he was fired up; he was always the same. The cocaine was a great motivator, and Willie was lethal, once he’d had a toot. He could also be a touch too reckless at times, but Mike could always be relied upon to reel him back in if required. However, right now, Mike had no intention of reeling anyone in. When needs must the devil drives, he thought. He was going to do whatever it took to get his son, and if that meant hurting people in the process, then so be it. He was blinded by his need to find Ricky and couldn’t give a shit how he did it.

‘Mikey, ’ave ya checked Jackie’s muvver’s? Maybe, she’s gone there,’ Staffie said. He could see Mike needed to focus on the positive.

The clock was ticking. He knew that the longer the Harmans had his boy, the more likely they were to kill him. But if they did have him, surely they would have sent a message by now, with some form of a deal? With his hands together and two forefingers resting on his lip, Mike broke out of his thoughts.

‘She doesn’t get on with Gilly.’ He let out a deep sigh and sat down heavily on the sofa. ‘I dunno. I can’t think straight.’

Staffie knew he had to take charge. ‘Willie, you go and round the boys up, check out the pubs, and go and visit that landlord. Call us if ya hear anything. Lou, call Eric and tell him to get his arse back ’ere.’

Mike felt sick. Every nerve at the back of his head was on end; it was like a numbing sensation he’d never experienced before. He wasn’t in control, and he knew if he didn’t get a grip soon, he would lose it.

‘Mikey, where does Gilly live?’

Mike rubbed his face in deep contemplation. ‘Just up the road, ten minutes away …’ He stood up, towering over Staffie. ‘I’ll pay her a visit. If the Harmans don’t have my boy, then it means that Jackie has just fucked off. Jesus, give me strength if she has. I’ll throttle her, the bitch.’

* * *

Driving once more like a lunatic, Mike arrived outside Gilly’s house. He stared for a while at the patchy old pebbledash walls, the overgrown lawn, and the cracked front window held together with gaffer tape. It wasn’t until he’d married Jackie that he found out where she came from. She was too embarrassed to take him to her house, always keeping up the pretence that she was from a good home. Jackie’s inferiority complex often proved to be her own undoing. With her nose in the air, she would look down on people – and take enormous pleasure in doing so.

He knocked on a door which had seen better days. A croaky voice called out, ‘Who is it? I ain’t properly dressed!’

‘Gilly, it’s me, Mikey. Open up, love.’

He heard her rattling a key in the lock and struggling to slide back two bolts, before, finally, she pulled the door ajar. Through the small crack, where he could see her beady eye, the smell hit him: the whole place reeked of dogs, fags, and piss.

‘Let me in, Gilly, please. I need a word.’

She undid the security chain and stepped aside, allowing her huge son-in-law to enter.

As he wandered from the passageway straight into the living room, she waddled in behind him, her worn-out features on a par with the equally antiquated Dralon sofa, onto which Mike slumped.

He looked her over and shook his head. Gilly was a state and a half. Her once thick hair was thin and straggly; it was held away from her wrinkled face by two hair clips. A bright-green velour tracksuit with ‘Juicy Couture’ embroidered on the back was her attempt at looking trendy. But the colour didn’t do anything for her muted complexion, and the loose material around the knees and backside made her look even thinner than she was. He wondered if she’d ever been attractive in her younger years. Stick-thin and gaunt, she looked who she was, a typical junkie. ‘What’s up, Mikey? Ya never visit …’ She noticed his white face. ‘Mikey, love?’

‘Jackie and Ricky have gone missing.’ It hurt him even to say those words. A lump idled in his throat.

‘They ain’t ’ere, Mikey … and what’s she doing? If I know my Jackie, and if she did do the off, she wouldn’t take the boy. She loves herself too much, that one. Bastard of a mother she is …’ She realized she’d just spoken out of turn. But there was no love lost: she hated her daughter. Not that she always had; in fact, she’d absolutely doted on her until the day her daughter found herself a Saturday job and started spending money on doing herself up. That was the time she turned on her mother, starting with all the bitchy comments and ending with violence.

‘Gilly, where would she go? Who are her friends?’

Gilly took a seat. Mike noticed how thin she’d become; her bony mottled red feet were like those of a chicken. He looked at her shaky hands and assumed she was back on the drugs.

‘Friends? You gotta be bleedin’ joking, ain’t ya? Don’t make me laugh. The girl only uses people. How you put up with her, I’ll never know. Ya must have the patience of a saint. It’s Ricky I feel sorry for.’

His jaw tightened; just hearing his son’s name made him feel sick with worry.

‘Look, Gilly, can’t ya think of anyone she may have gone to?’

Looking up at the ceiling, Gilly tried to think if Jackie had mentioned anyone from the past, but the reality was Jackie never spoke to her. Not about anything personal, anyway. With her, it was all just snide remarks. ‘Oh, Mikey, I wish I could help, but ya see, I can’t. Jackie, she’s such a sly one. She’s too many secrets, that girl.’

Mike jolted. ‘Like what?’

Gilly was still a little stoned. She realized she’d just said far too much. She knew a lot about Mike. He could be like a rottweiler when it suited him. He certainly wouldn’t rest until she told him.

‘Well?’

Gilly felt uncomfortable. She rubbed the front of her thighs with her arthritis-crippled fingers. Mike suddenly noticed that the room still had the threadbare carpets, the peeling 1970’s wallpaper, and the former cream-coloured suite – now a dirty grey – that he’d seen on his last visit a year ago. A frown etched its way across his forehead.

She watched him scan the room. Then, without a word, he jumped up from his seat and headed towards the hallway and directly into the kitchen.

He glared with scornful eyes at the original council kitchen, made of cheap melamine, that over the years had bubbled and split. The worktops had no edging on them and were sharp at the corners, to say the least. The linoleum tiles were an odd assortment and partly missing. He then focused on the dripping tap and the build-up of limescale on the sink. Everything in the room was old and rotten. The space in the corner, where the dog bed had once been, had a dirty brown stain on the walls.

He spun around to face Gilly and realized that he hadn’t noticed until now how she was holding herself up with a walking stick. His worn, worried face was all too much for Gilly. ‘What is it Mikey?’ she asked, her voice soft and now very much concerned. She hoped the look on his face was because he was worried about her. But she got that wrong.

‘You fucking scag head! All the money I gave you to have this shit-hole done up, so when my Ricky comes to visit he wouldn’t scratch his face on this disgusting worktop, or crawl around in the filth. I bet you just snorted the fucking lot.’ He expected Gilly to look suitably contrite. Instead, and to his utter amazement, he was met with a look of sheer horror – and disbelief – on her face.

‘What money?’

‘The fucking money Jackie took off me, to get this house cleaned up.’

Now it was Gilly’s turn to frown. ‘I saw no money, Mikey. As Gawd is my witness, I ain’t ’ad a penny off neither of youse.’

Mike detected a slight gypsy tongue. ‘You’re a fucking liar! I bet you spent every tenner on drugs, didn’t ya?’

Gilly felt her limbs trembling; she needed to sit down. Slowly, she trudged over to the small rickety table where she sat uncomfortably. Taking a few deep breaths, she looked him squarely in the eyes as she replied, ‘I ain’t taken drugs in over ten bleedin’ years. I only smoke the smallest amount of weed for me pain. And I’ve never touched it when I’ve been babysitting little Ricky, love his heart. As for money, don’t you think if I’d had any, I’d have tried to make me poxy, flea-ridden home ’alf decent?’

Mike sighed. This evening was getting worse by the minute. ‘So, you mean to tell me that Jackie never gave you a penny for a new kitchen, a sofa, even carpets, and, let me think, a swing set for the garden?’

‘Swing set? Are you ’aving a laugh, Mikey? No, she never gave me fuck all.’ Gilly looked around and felt embarrassed by the state of the place. ‘Mikey, look, I never was this untidy. I do try me best, but I can ’ardly move me fingers, and the quack reckons I need two new knees. I know it looks terrible, but I do try to take Ricky to the park when I babysit every week … Mikey, you will still let me see him, won’t ya? I mean, I love that baby, I do. He’s all I’ve got to look forward to.’

Mike closed his eyes and took a gulp of air, trying to clear his mind. ‘What d’ya mean by “every week”? I thought it was once a month you babysat?’ He looked at her now with some compassion, and his voice softened. He might have known Jackie would have kept the money. She was all about the bees and honey. He knew she would take far more than she needed, and what she spent it on, he didn’t bother to ask – it would only end in another row.

Gilly sensed his calmer tone and looked up. ‘Tuesdays, Thursdays, and every other Saturday, when Jackie gets her hair and nails and stuff done. She brings him to me after school or drops him off on a Saturday morning. I thought you knew? I mean, I’d never hurt little Ricky. I try me best to play games and read with him if it’s raining. I don’t cook in that kitchen. I always buy in little ready-made meals and cakes, so you don’t have ta worry.’

Mike was trying to keep his breathing shallow, but his huge chest was puffing in and out, raising his whole torso by a good five inches.

‘Sorry, Gilly. Of course I know you babysit Ricky, but let me get this clear. Jackie drops him off to you every other Saturday for the day and also on a Tuesday and Thursday after school for a couple of hours? And she never paid or organized for your house to be done up? Is that right, Gilly?’

She nodded. ‘Yes, and I don’t take drugs, apart from a small puff on a joint afore I goes ta bed. It’s just for me pain, like.’

With flared nostrils, Mike chewed the inside of his lip. ‘Where does she really go? ’Cos you women know if someone’s just had their hair and nails done. I’m guessing she’s been pulling a fucking fast one.’

Gilly had nothing to lose; she had to be honest. ‘Nah, Mikey, I don’t think she’s getting her hair done. See, that’s what I mean. That gal ’as bleeding secrets. I dunno why, though. She has what we all want – a nice home, food on the table, and holidays abroad. I would’ve given my right arm ta ’ave that. Still …’

Mike once again noticed a twang in her accent. He’d never noticed it before. ‘I thought you’d have preferred a caravan anyway, Gilly?’

She looked sharply up at him, wondering if he was being spiteful. ‘No point in keeping up a pretence, living a lie, is there? Yeah, I’m a traveller. So’s my Jackie, if the truth be told. But, fair enough, she wanted to ditch that life, and, sadly, she wanted me to pretend I was a gorger. She made me swear down that I never told you that truth. With her new look and her money, the selfish cow wanted me to keep quiet and not let on. I did say to her that you would love her either way, if ya really loved her. But she was incensed. She swore, if I ever told ya, it would be the last time I’d see little Ricky, and I couldn’t bear that. Ya won’t stop me though, Mikey, will ya? Little Ricky-boy loves me, I knows he does. I wouldn’t bring him up in the gypsy way, I swear.’

He shook his head. ‘Nah, ’course not, Gilly. You’re his granny, gypsy or not. You love him, and yeah, he does love ya. In fact, he loves the bones of ya. Do you have any idea where she would have been going on these Saturdays, or any other time?’

Now feeling more comfortable in Mike’s company, she at last let her tongue talk freely. ‘She’s a go-getter, Mikey, always ’as been, like, since a teenager. She has no morals, not like a woman should ’ave, if ya know what I mean?’

‘A tart?’

She pursed her thin lips together. ‘Yeah, Mikey, a real slapper. Sorry to say it, mate, and her being my gal an’ all, but, well, she is what she is. There ain’t no changing her.’

Mike pondered for a moment. ‘Gilly, I told Jackie to take Ricky on the next plane to our villa in Spain. I’ve got a bit of business to attend to, and I wanted them away, so no harm could come to them, and she knew that. D’ya think she would have ignored me, even knowing how serious it was?’

Gilly scratched her forehead and shook her head. ‘I wouldn’t think so, Mikey, ’cos she’d do anything to save her own skin. Yeah, I believe she would’ve gone to Spain.’

She could see Mike visibly shrink, his great big lintel-like shoulders now slumped.

‘She never went to Spain.’

Gilly put her hands to her mouth. ‘Jesus, this business. It wouldn’t lead to our little Ricky getting hurt, now, would it?’

Mike looked at the worry that suddenly cast a pall on Gilly’s face. Her eyes were alive with fear.

‘No, Gilly, ’course not.’ He didn’t really believe his own words, despite trying to put her mind at rest.

He took one more look around the tired kitchen. ‘It’s late, Gilly, so I’ll be off. Call me, if you can think of anywhere she may have gone, just in case she decided to find a place of her own instead of jumping on a plane to Spain.’

She struggled to stand up. For the first time, Mike had a very clear picture of his mother-in-law and not the crap that Jackie had been telling him. ‘Are you really in a lotta pain, Gilly?’

She gave a sad smile, showing her missing tooth. ‘Yeah, but old age gets to us all.’

The sad thing about it all was that Gilly wasn’t old at all. She was a woman in her early fifties who could have passed for seventy.

‘Once all this business is sorted out, I’ll come back and organize a bit of help. I’ll get you a new kitchen and freshen this place up. I’ll pay for a cleaner as well. I can’t have Ricky’s granny living like this.’

Her bony fingers clutched his arm. ‘You’re a good lad, Mikey. Ya muvver must be proud. It’s just a shame I can’t say the same about Jackie. But for me little grandson, I can, and I will. He’s a chip off the ol’ block, a mini you, if ya don’t mind me saying.’

He quickly pecked her on the cheek and was gone.