The Reckoning (Carter Brothers), page 5
Every slight noise made the hairs on the back of Skinny’s neck stand up on end and his heart beat that little bit faster. The unmistakable wail of a police siren in the distance had been enough to make him hyperventilate. Where the fuck was Aaron? Not for the first time since leaving the club, he wondered if his mate had maybe had his collar felt, why else would he not have returned home? The very notion was enough to make his throat constrict and his chest tighten – would the Old Bill come looking for him next? After all, he was an accomplice, wasn’t he? It had been him who’d acquired the firearm, he’d even been the one who’d encouraged Aaron to pull the trigger and blast his father to death. His fingers inched their way down to his jacket pocket and he gently patted the thin fabric. The bulky hard firearm was still there, not that it was likely to go anywhere; he wasn’t that lucky, he decided.
Daylight had just begun to break through the clouds when he saw a taxi pull up outside the flat. From his hiding place, Skinny watched as Aaron exited the car then made his way down the path.
‘Where the fuck have you been?’ Hissing out the words, Skinny stepped out from amongst the bushes and shivered, his boots muddy, his clothes wet and clinging to him like a second skin.
Aaron’s eyes widened and, glancing nervously around him, he unlocked the front door, then shoved Skinny none too gently across the threshold.
‘Where do you think I’ve fucking been?’ Aaron spat. He took a step back and looked his friend up and down. ‘Tell me you haven’t,’ he asked as he eyed the obvious outline of the firearm through the thin material of Skinny’s jacket, ‘please tell me you haven’t still got the fucking gun on you?’
‘What was I supposed to do with it?’ Skinny growled back. ‘It’s yours – you wanted this; it’s fuck all to do with me.’ Taking the firearm out of his pocket, he motioned for Aaron to take it from him. ‘Come on, man,’ he said, ‘take it.’
Aaron stared at the offending weapon with a level of horror. He didn’t want to touch it, didn’t want to remember what he’d done, what he’d caused.
‘Take it,’ Skinny urged him, his voice rising several decibels.
Whipping out his hand, as quickly as he could, Aaron took the firearm and placed it on the kitchen worktop.
Through narrowed eyes, Skinny watched his friend’s every movement. ‘Well,’ he asked, ‘is he brown bread?’
Averting his gaze, a pink tinge inched its way up Aaron’s neck and cheeks.
‘Is he dead?’ Skinny asked a second time, his tone becoming more urgent.
Aaron gave the pistol a surreptitious glance, then gave a shake of his head; the action was so slight that if Skinny hadn’t been actively looking out for a response, he would have missed it altogether.
‘What the fuck, man?’ Skinny’s breath came out in short sharp bursts and underneath the bare lightbulb his brown skin paled. ‘What do you mean, no?’ He grasped Aaron by the elbow and pulled him around to face him. ‘You shot him.’
Turning his head away, Aaron rubbed at the nape of his neck; his skin felt cold and clammy to the touch and the feeling of dread lay heavy in his heart.
‘I was there,’ Skinny reiterated, pointing beyond the front door. ‘I saw it with my own two eyes, you shot him.’
‘I missed.’ Aaron's voice was barely louder than a whisper as he yanked himself free from Skinny's grasp. ‘I missed, all right?’
‘Missed?’ Retreating to the far side of the kitchen, Skinny pulled at his dreadlocks, as though the answers he so desperately craved were at the end of his fingertips. ‘But how? I saw you take the shot.’
‘I…’ There was a level of helplessness to Aaron’s demeanour and he lifted his shoulders in a weak shrug. ‘She was just a kid,’ he muttered, ‘she’d only just turned eighteen.’
‘Was?’ Skinny gasped. ‘What do you mean by was?’ He narrowed his eyes, his expression one of horror.
‘Take it.’ Ignoring the question, Aaron gestured towards the firearm, his voice becoming more and more desperate as the seconds ticked by. ‘Get rid of it,’ he begged Skinny, ‘dump it in the Thames, bury it, do whatever the fuck you want with it just get it away from here, away from me.’
Skinny held up his hands, all the while warily eyeing the firearm. ‘Answer the fucking question, man,’ he growled. ‘Who did you hit?’
Despair filled Aaron and, lowering himself to the floor, he crouched down and held his head in his hands. How could he have been so stupid to think that the plan he’d haphazardly thrown together could even work? The Old Bill were going to throw the book at him, at the very least they would charge him with attempted murder, that was if his dad didn’t get to him first, and then there was Danny to contend with. Back in the day, Danny’s reputation had been warranted and Aaron had a sneaking suspicion that despite the fact his father’s best friend had supposedly turned over a new leaf and gone straight, Danny wouldn’t think twice about causing a man some serious damage if need be. After all, the girl hadn’t just been anyone, she was his daughter, something he was bound to view as a personal affront.
‘Aaron.’ Skinny’s voice rose a notch, his lips set into a thin line and his jaw rigid as he spoke. ‘Who did you fucking hit?’
Aaron let out a shaky breath and, as a sudden sickness rippled through him, he forced himself to answer. ‘A girl,’ he sighed, and for the briefest of moments he contemplated lying and subsequently denying all knowledge of her identity. More than anything he prayed that he would wake up from the nightmare that had become his life. Taking another shaky breath, he wrapped his arms protectively around himself. ‘Danny McKay’s daughter.’
Skinny was horror-struck. He clasped his hands behind his head, his eyes wide. ‘Is she dead?’
Aaron squeezed his eyes closed in a desperate attempt to block out the sickening image of Lexi being stretchered out of the club, an oxygen mask strapped to her face, her skin so deathly pale that she looked as though she’d already bled out her life’s blood. He shook his head. ‘She’s in intensive care.’
‘What the fuck?’ Skinny gasped. His gaze darted around the tiny kitchen as though he was looking for an escape route, as though he half expected Danny McKay to come crashing through the front door at any moment. ‘What have you fucking done?’
‘You think I wanted this?’ Aaron jumped to his feet and as he advanced towards Skinny, he poked himself in the chest. ‘Do you really think that I’d try to kill some innocent kid? It should have been my old man they were carrying out and you fucking know it.’ As soon as the words had left his mouth, he swallowed down the hard lump in his throat and rubbed his hand over the dark stubble that covered his jaw. He felt sick to his stomach, his mind reeling with shock and his body numb. ‘Please, mate.’ He glanced down at the gun, hating the hard metal for everything it stood for. ‘Get rid of it for me, it can’t stay here, you know it can’t, it’s got my prints all over it and if the filth come knocking, I’ll be done for, I’ll go down for attempted murder.’
‘Your prints,’ Skinny hissed, ‘what about my prints?’ He stared wide-eyed at the firearm, wanting to kick himself for even touching the gun, let alone actually carrying it around with him while waiting for Aaron to show up.
‘Then get rid of it,’ Aaron urged him, ‘for both of our sakes.’
Skinny sighed, and against his better judgement, he snatched up the firearm and tucked it back inside his pocket. Without saying another word, he shook his head and made for the front door. Coming to an abrupt halt, he spun back around. ‘What about Joey Mann and Christos? You made a deal with them, man.’ He lifted his eyebrows questioningly. ‘They ain’t gonna be happy about this.’ He tapped his wristwatch, a flashy timepiece that looked a lot more expensive than it actually was. ‘They’re expecting your old man to be dead about now.’
As Aaron looked up, an all-too-familiar sneer was plastered across his face. Joey and Carlos he could deal with. As far as he was concerned, they were fuck all for him to worry about; he’d never even heard of them before Skinny had brought the men into the club to meet him. ‘Fuck ’em,’ he spat, his voice full of the usual arrogance, ‘I don’t answer to them and the quicker they realise that, the better it’ll be for everyone concerned.’
Joey hadn’t been lying; by the time his father entered the restaurant, steam was practically coming out of Gerry Mann’s ears.
‘Those stupid little fuckers,’ he growled. ‘They’re going to pay for this fuck-up, and it’s not just any fuck-up,’ he roared, ‘it’s a fuck-up of epic proportions.’
Joey rolled his eyes; he and Carlos had already sussed that part out for themselves. ‘We already know that,’ he said under his breath.
Silently brooding, Gerry began to pace the floor. All thanks to the son’s incompetence, Garner and McKay now knew that there was a price on their heads. Fingers would be pointed, accusations would be thrown, and before he knew it, his name would be brought into the equation. A mental image of his friend’s body swinging from a hook entered his mind. Adam’s murder had not only been brutal, but it had also been barbaric, so sickening in fact that even the coppers who had stumbled across the crime scene had been left traumatised, and to know that the murder had been committed by teenagers, two young men barely out of school, made the crime all the more abhorrent.
‘What do you want us to do, Dad?’
‘What do I want you to do?’ Gerry roared. His cheeks turned a deep shade of red, and white spittle gathered at the corners of his snarled lips. ‘What do you think I want you to do?’ he yelled. ‘Invite the bastards round for a fucking tea party?’
Resisting the urge to shrug, Joey was saved from answering when Carlos piped up. ‘We find the little pricks and then we deal with them, as quickly and as quietly as we can.’
Gerry thrust his finger forward. ‘That right fucking there,’ he said, ‘is exactly what we do.’ He slumped heavily on to a chair and, taking the glass that was pushed into his shaking hand, he downed the brandy in one large gulp. ‘Find the little fuckers,’ he ordered, ‘and while you’re at it’ – his hard, beady little eyes narrowed into mere slits – ‘pay a visit to Robbie Groves; the bastard knows a little bit too much for my liking, and the last thing we need is for him to open his trap.’
Joey and Carlos shared a glance. It was from Robbie that they had acquired the firearm; he was a nice bloke and considered an expert in his chosen field. He also knew when to keep schtum; he wouldn’t have lasted two minutes in their world if he couldn’t.
‘Have you got a problem with that?’ Gerry barked as he looked from his son to Carlos.
Joey shook his head; there was a hint of excitement in his eyes. ‘Nah, Dad,’ he answered, ‘of course we haven’t.’
‘Well, go on, then.’ Jerry jerked his head towards the restaurant door, his expression set like thunder. ‘What are you waiting for? Get fucking on with it.’
In a scrapyard just behind Thames View Estate in Barking, Greater London, where the Carter brothers ran their business, Jimmy Carter lounged back on a leather office chair and rubbed his thumb over the rough stubble that covered his jawline. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with dark cropped hair and startling blue eyes, a trait which he, his three remaining younger brothers, and three nephews all shared.
On paper, the scrapyard and a bookmakers in Barking town centre that the brothers owned was how the Carters legitimately earned a living. The reality, of course, was very different; bank robberies were what they excelled in, not to mention the debt-collecting business that they successfully ran as a side-line.
They had once been a boxing family and each of the brothers had been well on their way to making it as professionals, until the elder of the brothers, Tommy, had fallen under the radar of notorious villain Davey Abbott. The lure of easy money and power was all it had taken for Tommy to swap boxing gloves for a gun, and this in turn had propelled the brothers not only into a life of crime but also considerable wealth, until, that was, Tommy had been murdered by his own brother, Gary.
‘They’re fucking brazen, I’ll give ’em that,’ Jonny, the youngest of the brothers, said, with a shake of his head. ‘Either that or they’ve got a screw loose up here.’ He tapped his temple to emphasise his point and, sitting forward in his seat, he turned to look in Danny’s direction. ‘I mean, they must know that this is going to cause some serious ructions; they didn’t just hit anyone, they hit your daughter.’
Jimmy nodded in agreement. It was no secret that both Danny and Moray had reputations as hard men, and despite the fact they had both retired from the life, those reputations still followed them around. ‘Jonny’s right,’ he said, spreading open his arms, ‘it was a big risk on their part.’
Shifting his position on the leather sofa that ran the length of the Portakabin, Danny kicked his legs out in front of him. Over the years, the office had hardly changed at all. In one corner, a rusting, rickety filing cabinet that had to be at least forty years old was somehow still standing, and balancing precariously on top of it was a mountain of dogeared yellowing paperwork that looked as though it was in danger of toppling to the floor at any moment. The only new addition he could see since his last visit was a neglected, straggly potted plant that had more than likely been placed on the edge of the desk by Stacey Carter in an attempt to brighten the Portakabin up, the once green leaves now dry and brown. Tearing his eyes away from the dying plant, Danny gave a shrug. ‘That’s if it even was an attempted hit,’ he said. ‘For all we know, that bullet was meant for one of the customers.’
‘It’s one hell of a coincidence that Moray was in the VIP section at that precise moment, though, isn’t it?’ Jimmy stated. ‘If I was a gambling man, I’d say the chances of that happening were pretty low.’
Danny sighed and, as Moray’s words came back to haunt him, he resigned himself to the fact that a war could well be on the cards; the very notion was enough to depress him. He’d thought that the days when he’d needed to constantly look over his shoulder, forever wondering, when, not if, he would be topped, were in his distant past. ‘I was actually hoping that you might have heard one or two whispers,’ he said, looking at each of the four brothers in turn. ‘Let’s face it,’ he said with a half laugh, ‘there’s enough of you and I know that nothing gets past your attention; you make it your business to know what’s going down, who might be stepping on your toes.’
‘We’ve heard fuck all.’ Jimmy shook his head. ‘To be fair, though, we have been a bit preoccupied of late,’ he answered with a knowing wink.
Jimmy’s great-nephew Thomas flexed his nimble fingers. At only seventeen, he’d already become embroiled in the family business and, as Jimmy had on more than one occasion pointed out, he was his brother Tommy’s grandson all right. In fact, the teenager had seemed to take to the business of robbing banks like a duck to water. ‘We’re moving up in the world.’ Thomas laughed. ‘Uncle Jimmy’s got his eye on a diamond exhibition over in Kent.’
‘One hundred and eighty carats,’ Jimmy said, a slow grin creasing his face. ‘It’s fucking flawless and that’s without the rest of the gems on display, which, trust me, are little beauties in their own right.’
His eyes widening, Danny managed to chuckle. ‘Is there nothing you lot won’t try to pinch?’
‘Well.’ Spreading open his arms, Jimmy grinned even wider, showing off a set of perfect white teeth. ‘As Tommy used to say,’ he said with a glance up at the ceiling in a show of respect for his deceased brother, ‘if it’s got our name on it, then it’s ours for the taking and fuck anyone who tries to get in our way.’
Shaking his head in wonder, Danny had always known that the Carter brothers were experts at what they did; the fact they had never even come close to being caught was all the proof needed to confirm that this was the case. They were selective, thorough in their planning of a robbery, and would often wait months, sometimes for as long as up to a year, before striking and clearing out a bank, building society or security van. As a tight-knit family, they very rarely, if ever, let outsiders in on their business dealings and the fact they were willing to share details of their upcoming raids proved that they trusted Danny, that they regarded him as more than just a close family friend.
‘So.’ Steepling his fingers in front of him, Jimmy swivelled his chair from side to side, keen to get back down to the business of the shooting. ‘What are you thinking, was this an attempted hit or not?’
As he looked down at his boots, Danny thought the question through. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ he finally answered, ‘but if it was a hit, why now? Why wait all these years to crawl out of the woodwork and stir shit up?’
Jimmy’s eyebrows rose a notch. ‘Like you said, you’ve been out of the life for years, this isn’t something new, some new vendetta, you’re looking for someone who’s got a grudge to bear.’
‘Yeah, it’s looking that way.’ Danny sighed, knowing full well that the list of suspects could well be as long as his arm, maybe even both arms. Back in the day, he had never been afraid to have a pop at someone, and that was without the business he’d conducted on behalf of his one-time boss Freddie Smith, nor the murders that he’d either committed or orchestrated off his own bat. ‘Someone’s bound to open their mouth and talk.’ He sat forward slightly and clasped his hands together. ‘Maybe if we could track down who sold the gun…’
Blowing out his cheeks, Jimmy cut Danny off. ‘Times have changed, mate, it’s not like the good old days, guns are ten a penny now and you can pick up a semi-automatic or a sawn-off for as little as fifty quid on the streets – if you know where to look, of course.’ He paused for a moment and gave a light laugh. ‘But if we’re talking about a face from back in the day, say, someone old school, well’ – he spread open his arms – ‘it stands to reason they’re gonna stick with what they know and buy from an arms dealer, and that,’ he said, pointing a finger towards Danny, ‘means the gun can be traced back.’
