Brotherhood of Blades Page 7

  This crockery was a good little business, and she’d use it to make sure he had the things he needed until he was sorted and on his own two feet. He was a clever lad and he’d have a training soon. She would take a cleaning job, too, if need be, to help him. She was used to hard work; as a child she had to miss school to cook and clean for her alcoholic mother. Then she’d met Frankie, and got pregnant herself at fifteen. Frankie soon disappeared, and she found herself with Wendy to feed and no bloody help from anyone. But it was all worth it; she adored her new daughter, and happily worked four cleaning shifts a day to feed her as well as keep her mother in gin.

  As Wendy grew up, Sally’s mother fell ill, so after a long day’s work she had to spend her evenings bathing and caring for her. Looking back, she knew she hadn’t given her daughter the attention a child needed, but she was always so busy.

  Shortly after her mother passed away, Wendy announced that she was pregnant, and gave birth a few months later to a beautiful, healthy, brown-skinned baby. They named him Jason, after his father, who they never saw again. It was, Wendy told her, just a fling.

  While Wendy supposedly looked after Jason, Sally was out cleaning again. It was years later that she learned Wendy spent the housekeeping as well as her benefit money on drugs, and left Jason neglected.

  By the time Wendy died of an overdose Jason had grown into an angry twelve-year-old who had learned to stand on his own two feet and was well versed in the ways of crime, thanks to the gangs that ran riot on the notorious Aviary Estate.

  Sally herself had never crossed swords with the law, and she wasn’t afraid of the youths that had formed gangs on the estate either, even when they carried guns or knives. If they kept out of her way, they got along just fine, but if they hung around outside her door they’d get an earful from her sharp tongue. She was born on that estate and it had always been her home. She had only moved down the road to help Jason get a clean start when he came out of prison, not for an easier life for herself as the gossips were saying. She wasn’t afraid of them, she wasn’t afraid of no one. She earned her own living and kept herself to herself and wasn’t about to change.

  It was about nine o’clock last night when Jason had staggered up the stairs in that terrible state. Earlier that day he had talked about his future. He had learned a hard lesson in prison, he said, and now he intended to stay away from crime and be a dancer. She wasn’t a fool; she knew that no matter how she warned him not to go back to the estate to see that slag Chantelle, he would still go. Love was love, and Jason thought he loved Chantelle. Sally knew she was bad and would drag him back down the wrong road, but it was no use arguing with Jason. He was strong-willed; when he was a child she had often been afraid of him. Even at the tender age of eight he was capable of terrifying violence. She remembered a particular incident when he’d gone half mad at her for something or nothing, picked up a sharp carving knife and stabbed it into her new kitchen stools, one after the other, and after she’d saved so hard to buy the bloody things. She loved those stools; the seats had been covered to match the floral blinds in her kitchen. She had kept them, meaning to have them re-covered when she’d saved up enough money, but she never had; they were still slashed and stabbed now, as a reminder to herself never to push Jason too far.

  She’d have to hope he’d forget Chantelle when he got into his new dancing life. She wasn’t going to risk him turning on her by telling him what the slapper was up to every night, on the street in front of the estate. Sally had seen the little tart with her own eyes, flagging down motorists and offering them sexual favours. Jason would have to find out for himself. And she hoped he would.

  And as for that Haley! The woman really provoked her, banging on at her to keep Jason away from her niece because he wasn’t good enough for her. Well, the truth was he was too bloody good by a mile.

  So when Jason came home, and stood shaking inside the door, with blood all over his hands and clothes and in his hair, her first thought was that someone had tried to take him out, and after all that had happened to her precious family, she was now going to lose her only grandson to someone who wanted to get even for something in the past. Oh, the relief when he’d assured her that he wasn’t hurt, but had to get out of those clothes! He told her something terrible had happened and he didn’t know what to do.

  They had both sat in her kitchen on the stools with the slashes across their floral plastic coverings, and Jason told her that Haley Gulati was dead and lying at the bottom of her block of flats with knife wounds in her chest.

  Sals had picked up the phone to dial 999. But he had stopped her; he had taken care of everything, he said, but now he needed to get away. She had asked no more questions; she just got on with helping him, as she always had.

  SIX

  The flat was quiet and empty as DI David Dawes unlocked his front door and let himself in. He stood in the hall for a moment and took a couple of deep breaths.

  In the short time that she was there, Philly had turned his neat home into bedlam. He was forever shouting at her to tidy her stuff from under his feet and turn her music down. Now he missed the mess, almost as much as he missed her.

  He knew it would take time, but it had been well over a year now, and the numbness still suffocated him. Every time something reminded him of her, he silently promised her that he would find the dealer that sold her the heroin that killed her and make the bastard pay. Now that goal was within his grasp.

  He walked into the bathroom, turned the tap on and held his cupped hands under the cold tap. A vigorous cold splash followed by a brisk rub with a clean towel made him feel more awake; the long hours police work demanded were no joke. He hung the towel tidily on the rail and looked around. Here, too, he found he missed the mess: bottles without tops, their contents leaking over the glass shelf.

  Some of her clothes still hung in the wardrobe. He’d thought about taking them to a charity shop but couldn’t quite bring himself to pack them up; knowing that something of hers was still there was a comfort. It was only a pair of jeans, and a few party tops he had bought for her, knowing better than to give her money. He had enjoyed choosing them, and she had loved them, but never got round to wearing them.

  He still had her teddy too, in a drawer in the back bedroom: the pink Care Bear she’d had since childhood and she took everywhere. The tearstained, grubby toy was hardly even pink now, but he had been her prize possession and no one was going to take it away from him.

  His father had told him to get a grip and clear her stuff out, but he didn’t listen. Perhaps if his father had shown more feelings before and not maintained his stiff upper lip, maybe, just maybe . . . But Dawes was tired of maybes. Things were as they were, and that meant nothing but a few cans of beer on top of the fridge to welcome him home.

  He switched on the CD player and, as Willy Nelson’s soulful voice began to croon Without Her, he flopped on to the sofa and popped a can of lager.

  He didn’t feel especially tired, even though he had been working flat out for nearly twenty hours. Hearing about the murder down on the Aviary, then learning that he was being seconded to the case because of his knowledge of South London gangs, had set his adrenalin pumping. Finally all his research on South London gangs was paying off. They’d had a hard night tonight but the police had won out, and they had that bastard Reilly in custody. Dawes was almost sure he was the one who had dealt that fateful heroin to Philly.

  The lager felt cold and sharp as it slid down his throat. He couldn’t wait to get Reilly in interview. He knew Reilly ran the drug trade down on that estate, but he needed to find out exactly how long that had been the case. More than that: he wanted to know if the Aviary had been exclusively Buzzard territory before Reilly’s Brotherhood moved in, or if other dealers had used the territory too. He was pretty sure Reilly was his target, but he had to find out for sure, and now Reilly was securely locked away Dawes was confident the residents would start talking. He had been told there was an informant down on the esta
te already.

  This was also a crucial time for police/resident relations. If they could persuade some key people that the police could be trusted, there was a good chance they might get a grip on the violence which was teetering out of control. DI Georgia Johnson had said she was confident that they would tie up the case against Reilly over the weekend; it was all but in the bag. They even had a witness; all they needed was confirmation of the DNA evidence to put it to bed.

  Dawes hadn’t said a word, but he didn’t share her confidence. Stuart Reilly had a very smart brief. No one had made any charge stick thanks to him; he was more bent than the two hundred-odd South London gangs put together. Georgia Johnson had taken on a lot, and she would learn it wouldn’t be as easy as she thought.

  But once Dawes knew for sure it was Reilly who had sold the heroin that killed his sister, that bastard was going nowhere. Reilly might have spread terror across the Aviary estate by cutting fingers off his enemies or marking them with spider scars, but if he had sold Philly that fatal dose, it would be the end of the road for him. Dawes would do whatever it took.

  Dawes wasn’t entirely convinced that Yo-Yo Reilly had murdered tonight’s victim himself. He was certain he was behind the killing; he was behind all the crime on the estate. But if he hadn’t actually done the deed, the case was far from open and shut. If Reilly had stabbed her, the victim would have had twenty or thirty wounds, not three or four; the spider scar was his trademark. But Dawes wanted him in custody; he wanted it more than the rest of the Met put together. If DI Johnson thought Reilly was guilty of the murder, Dawes would say nothing, at least for the moment. His task was to bring in the person that murdered Haley Gulati, whoever that was. He would, too; he was a good detective and he’d do his job. But for now it was enough that he had Reilly in custody; he wasn’t going to miss the chance of a crack at him.

  As soon as the front door closed behind her Georgia Johnson peeled all her clothes off and dropped them on the mat. She hurried into the bathroom and straight into the shower. After covering her skin and hair with almost a whole bottle of body wash, she scrubbed herself under the near-scalding water for ten full minutes until she was sure all the excreta that clung to her had been removed. She repeated the process before stepping out of the shower and wrapping her body in a large fluffy black towelling robe and her hair in a matching towel.

  Wearing heavy-duty rubber gloves, she picked up the foul-smelling clothes from the doormat and dumped them in a black bin liner, which she put by the back door for the bin men. She then returned to the bathroom to wash her hands again, over and over under more scalding water.

  Suddenly hungry, she headed for the kitchen and poured soup from a can into a saucepan. While it was heating, she went back into the bathroom and carefully scrubbed under her nails with a brush, then as an indulgence, she smothered herself in expensive body lotion. She flicked the towel off her shoulder-length black hair and plaited it.

  After she had drunk her soup, she turned on her electric blanket, set the alarm clock and slipped into bed. Within minutes she was out for the count.

  Sally Young wiped each piece of china carefully before laying it back on her wooden trestle table. These were the best pieces; most of her stock was in cardboard boxes and wooden crates, which stood on the ground next to the table so that prospective customers could root through it.

  Her striped woollen mittens came halfway up her fingers, leaving the exposed half to grow stiff and cold, but it was easier to grip the crockery without fear of dropping it. That was one downside of this trade: her merchandise broke easily and she had to pay for her own losses; she wasn’t making enough to afford an insurance policy yet. She needed to be even more careful now she wanted to help Jason through dance school; cracks and chips ate into her profit.

  Pilfering was a problem too; she needed eyes in the back of her head and an extra pair on her shoulders, and still expensive items like casserole dishes disappeared as if the bloody fairies had arrived.

  She had to make this stall work. She was used to the humping and cleaning; it was the selling she found the hardest. Selling was new to her. The other stallholders seemed able to sell any old junk. Hers wasn’t junk, just oddments. Everyone needed odd pieces of crockery, milk jugs, and plates and dishes to make up broken sets. That was why she bought plenty of plain white, you couldn’t go wrong with that. All she needed was to learn to convey that to customers, then she’d be on a roll. She was too honest to try to sell someone something they didn’t want, but the other traders told her it wasn’t dishonest; some folk didn’t know they needed it until they’d bought it. She was learning all this.

  She loved it down at East Lane, and was starting to make friends for the first time in her life, joining in the banter with other street traders, sharing stories and chat while they warmed their frozen joints in the café over a bacon roll and a mug of tea, even standing in for another trader while he or she took a break. Making friends had never come easy to Sals; she hadn’t time, and she had always been a loner.

  Cleaning offices had been quite different. No one spoke to the cleaners, mostly no one even saw them; they came in when the offices were closed, and mainly worked alone. That had never bothered her, but now she liked hearing, ‘Morning, Sals,’ and ‘How’s it going today?’ or ‘Watch my stall, would you, Sals, I’ve got to ’ave a pee.’

  This morning as she dusted and displayed her wares, her mind was elsewhere. Jason was all she had, and she was so proud of him. Getting that scholarship can’t have been easy; it showed he must have talent. But now she was worried for him. He was still silly enough to be in love with that Chantelle, and she wanted him to move on. And as for that Haley, interfering stuck-up madam, always telling her Jason was a bad boy, and running to the police; she got what she deserved. Sals didn’t like it when the kids broke the law, but she’d never shop them to the Feds. It was only a matter of time before someone did Haley in. Sals just hoped Jason wouldn’t jeopardize his big chance over all this. She knew he could lose control of that temper of his, and although he had sworn all that was in the past, she still worried for him.

  It was seven thirty in the morning, and the light was just coming up over the market stalls. With a jolt, Sals caught sight of Dwayne Ripley, a so-called lieutenant in the Brotherhood, sauntering up the lane, a fag between his fingers. What was he doing here? She had never seen him around the market before. He looked around before dropping his cigarette butt and treading it into the ground with his heavy boot. Dwayne was feared on the Aviary estate. Sals thought he was a brainless bully, but she knew he spelt trouble.

  She had no intention of showing she was afraid of him. She folded her arms and stared as he approached the stall.

  ‘What do you want?’ she snapped.

  He lifted his grey fleece hood over his head, sniffed loudly and wiped his hand on his tracksuit trousers. It was a wonder they didn’t fall down, Sals thought; the crotch nearly reached his knees. Tufts of greasy hair poked out under his hood, and his skin was as pocked as ever with acne. Sals wanted to tell him that washing his hair occasionally might help with the spots, but stopped herself. Instead she snapped, ‘If you’ve something to say, spit it out. I’m busy.’

  Dwayne returned her stare. Slowly his mouth moved into a half-smile, then one of his boots flew up and caught the edge of the trestle table. Sals’ precious stock of crockery wobbled precariously. As her hand instinctively flew out to steady it, his boot landed on her fingers. She pulled her hand away with a yelp. The table wobbled again and some of the pieces slid backwards and crashed to the ground behind her.

  Nearby traders watched in horror, but no one moved in to help.

  Sals fought angry tears and fell to her knees, crawling around to salvage whatever she could.

  She missed the approach of Winston Mitchell, whose street-name was Scrap. He held two heavy gilt and leather leads in one hand, and pulled at the throats of two flat-headed, slavering pit bull terriers.

  She caught sight
of the dogs just too late to get out of their way. They both pounced, and one sank its teeth into her upper arm. She was wearing two woollen jumpers and a thermal vest, with a jacket over the top to keep out the early morning damp, but the animal’s teeth penetrated the layers until it found flesh. Sals screamed in agony.

  Some of the other traders moved towards her, but before they could reach her Dwayne landed a boot in her face and the second dog’s teeth were ripping at her half-gloved fingers. Blood dripped to the ground and Sals screamed again.

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ one of the traders said, stabbing numbers into his mobile phone.

  ‘Better call an ambulance too,’ another shouted.

  ‘I think you need a new table,’ was the last thing she heard Winston Mitchell say before he sped off, taking the dogs with him.

  ‘Bastard!’ she yelled after him. ‘Lousy, fucking bastard!’

  Dwayne leaned across the table till his face nearly touched hers. ‘Next time it’ll be your head.’ As he pulled away, he landed another punch in her eye, and she felt a warm globule of spittle slide down the side of her face.

  He moved in again, and she smelled heavy smoke on his breath. ‘Tell your grandson we know he’s around. We’re looking forward to welcoming him to our territory.’

  Then he was gone.

  Some of the other traders started to pack her broken china into boxes, while another, ignoring her protests, lifted her into his van and drove her to Casualty.

  Jason had scoured the floor with bleach until he was satisfied that no sign of Haley’s blood remained on Sals’ kitchen tiles. The washing machine was churning again, and he was confident that this final wash would remove the last traces of blood from his tracksuit. Gran Sals had suggested taking all his clothes with her in a black bin liner when she loaded her little van to go to market, but Jason had stopped her. The police were about, he told her, and their dogs had the scent of Haley. They only lived a hundred yards from the Aviary estate; the dogs would pick the scent up, and both Sally and Jason would be arrested. Jason had been in enough trouble in his life; he knew well enough how to clean up after himself. All his clothes, underwear and all, had gone through the washing machine twice, with bleach as well as soap powder. At least, that was the idea; as he emptied the water he’d used to scrub the floor, he spotted his bloodstained sweatshirt still lying on the floor. How could he have forgotten to put it in last time? He screwed it into a ball and stuffed it behind the machine. As soon as this cycle was finished, he’d see to it.