Face Down Page 8

  “Is there a Mrs. Simmonds, Albie?”

  “There was, lad, but I lost her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “I lost Eunice to heart disease. Iraq took my son, and the banks took my business...It’s just me now. I could roll over and play dead, or instead I can do what I’m doing, get involved, prove that there’s still some sting in an old bee.”

  “So politics...”

  “Fills the gap, yes. But it’s also something I care about, Harry. Modern life is a rigged game, lad; it’s rigged against the old, the hard-working, the tax payer, the Christian, the poor bloody infantry. Someone has got to make a stand.”

  I sipped my beer. “So why not join a party with half a chance of getting elected?” The question hung in the air for a moment. The old man looked at me and scowled.

  “What, like Cameron’s Tories? They’re not Conservative any more, nowhere near it. I was a member once; Enoch was my man, the greatest leader we never had. I completely lost interest in them after that. I would have joined UKIP, but because I stood as a candidate for the National Front back in the Seventies they won’t have me...”

  “The Front?” I raised an eyebrow. Where was this going?

  “I know what you’re thinking Harry, but the NF weren’t all rotten. There were ex-servicemen and even a rector in our branch. We didn’t know that the old leadership had been Hitler-loving creeps. But you live and learn. And because I don’t trust the BNP for the same reasons, I’m in Kenny’s gang now, for my sins.”

  “He’s got a factory round here hasn’t he?” I asked quickly but casually.

  “No, no. It’s in Wythenshawe, the Roundthorn Industrial Estate.”

  “And your son, how old was he?”

  “27. Kevin was killed during a bomb attack on a military ambulance that was delivering humanitarian aid in Basra....”

  “Oh Albie, I’m sorry.”

  “He’s just a statistic now. One of the 179 brave men we lost in the so-called War On Terror that made no sense when it started and even less sense in retrospect. By rights Tony Blair would be on trail as a war criminal at The Hague instead of swanning around the globe coining in millions...”

  I nodded enthusiastically and drained my pint. On this at least, he was bang-on. Albert kept going: “But instead we’re gearing up for more foreign intervention in the name of God knows what. No Harry lad, I can’t get my boy back, but maybe, just maybe, a frail old pensioner can help us get our country back.”

  He paused, I patted him on the back.

  “Let me get another beer in,” I said.

  “Go on then, I’ll have half a Nigerian lager this time, as it’s you buying.”

  Up at the bar, there was an older geezer behind the jump with a face the colour of a smoker’s ceiling. Either he was on day release from The Simpsons or the bloke had some serious liver disease going on.

  I ordered with a smile that was unreturned. He was about as helpful as a Parisian waiter. I looked along the bar. The Yeti didn’t look too well. Any greener and he’d start to photosynthesize. The cute little beanie blonde was struggling to keep him from sliding off his stool. I managed to steady him up, then shook him wide awake and wiped the drool from his beard with a Newcastle Brown Ale beer towel.

  “I’d take him home if I were you love,” I said. “Either that, or dump him in the park for the kids to use as a bouncy castle.”

  She laughed nervously and thanked me. I paid Homer Simpson and took my pint and Albert’s half a Guinness back over to our table, goading him gently to try and open him up.

  “I understand what you were saying, Albert, but I still can’t see how a few good ol’ boys in Manchester hope to make a difference.”

  “Because it’s not just us, Harry,” he said, suddenly animated. “There are good old boys like us all over the country, and quite a few young’uns too. Ken is part of a new network. We’ve just been biding our time to launch nationally, and that will happen within a matter of weeks, now we’ve got ourselves a figurehead.”

  “That being...?”

  “William Broadwick, the only man in the controlled media with the guts to tell it like it is... 95 per cent of what he says is what we say, and you can bet he’s there with us on the other five per cent but wants to keep his job.”

  “So, is Broadwick in on this?”

  “Not yet, but he’s in our sights. We’ve been on to his agent and booked him to speak at a conference in London next month. We spoke his language, hard cash.”

  “A conference? Very up-market.”

  “It’s called Whither England. It’s going to big, lad. There will be hundreds there, from all sorts of different groupings, activists, nationalists, ex-military men, disillusioned councillors from other parties. We’ve made William’s agent an offer that I’d be very surprised if he turned down. But whether he joins us or not, that day will see the birth of a new national organisation, a British people’s party...”

  Two young men in Stone Island tops came, in eyeing the clientele with ill-disguised contempt. The bigger, angrier Herbert had a face like a clenched fist, but he brightened up when he saw Albert. He got a thumbs up, I got a respectful nod.

  “Tonight’s security,” Albie muttered.

  “Do you know Ken well?” I asked casually.

  “Not well.”

  “But you trust him?”

  He hesitated. “His heart’s in the right place...”

  The ‘but’ hung unsaid in the air.

  My mobile buzzed; it was a text from Knockers but it gave me an early exit route. I pulled a face. “Sorry Albie, business,” I lied. “I’ve gotta dash. Apologise to Kenneth for me please.”

  “No problem, work comes first. Work and family.”

  That’s right, and my work here was done. I shook Albert’s hand, drained my pint and left. On the way out I noticed that the Yeti was comatose, and that the security boys had made a move on the blonde. Lucky girl. I needed to process all of this. I couldn’t give a flying fuck about the politics, to be honest, and couldn’t see it leading anywhere except into more ag. But if what Albie was saying was even half true, it meant I had to leap away from Ken’s kin and clan, perhaps spell that with a ‘K’, as quickly as possible. If they weren’t infiltrated now, they soon would be.

  I’d like to think that I would spot an MI5 mole before they’d spot me. My colleagues in the U/C game always said I had a magic eye – that I could suss out a wrong’un, a dodge-pot or a fraud within moments of meeting them. I had a knack for it, an instinct that was rarely wrong. But in this situation there was nothing to be gained from calling it on, and everything to be lost.

  Outside, I paused and looked at me moby. The text from Knockers was a drunken and misspelt one informing me of her latest carnal desires. I decided not to reply. What I needed to do was go home and start working on an escape route before...

  The pub door opened and shut behind me. Their footsteps stopped abruptly. Someone had followed me out. Fist-face?

  I turned around warily. Hold up, it was the blonde in the beanie hat...and, as I now saw, an Airbourne T-shirt, boots and black stockings which had been hidden by the Yeti’s barrel-sized beer gut. She wasn’t half bad in the twilight, if you liked that rock chick sort of thing. And in my experience, not many men don’t...

  The girl smelt of incense and hash, like Glastonbury on a good day.

  “Have you got any vodka back at yours?” she asked. Then she smiled and...you know exactly where this is going, don’t you? Trust me. These things happen when you’re a good-looking bastard.

  32

  Monday November 19. Wakefield, West Yorkshire

  Gary Shaw was not exactly inspired by Wakefield High-Security Prison. Britain’s ‘most notorious jail’ was largely Victorian, bleak and antiquated, and suffused with a smell that he didn’t like but couldn’t readily identify. He wasn’t too sure that he wanted to, either.

  Johnny Baker had been surprised to be summoned to the Governor’s off
ice, and was even more shocked to see DI Shaw waiting for him with a cute foxy red-head who he introduced as Detective Sergeant Rhona Watts. Baker had known Shaw from South London and Wattsie would definitely be starring in his next wank. He gave her his most disarming smile.

  “Hello my dear. I hope you didn’t leave the red light burning in your window, not with the price of electricity these days.”

  “Cut it out John,” Shaw said curtly.

  “Or what, Gal? Will you lock me up at Her Majesty’s pleasure? Whoops too late, mate, I’m already here.”

  Baker’s presence was sure, his gaze clear; his manner cruised straight through easy confidence to ring the bell marked bullish bonhomie. Sensing the DI’s unease, Johnny chased his advantage with a cheap shot one-liner. “Besides, you’re the ones who claim to have a ‘Special Escort’ Group...”

  He hadn’t got any less gobby then, Shaw thought. He gave the grinning gangster a look he could have whittled wood with, but Wattsie laughed it off. “It’s okay, guv, my red light runs on a meter these days,” she joked. “On account of the recession.”

  Baker chuckled and winked. “What are the odds of a double dip then, luv? Maybe get the old prison governess involved, see how filthy The Filth can get...”

  “Oh we can offer you something a bit better than that, Mr Baker,” she said, coquettishly. “How would you like to go all the way? All the way out of here?”

  For once Johnny Too bit his lip and listened as the two cops brought him up to speed on the killings, and the suspected link to William Broadwick’s column. They had yet to find any worthwhile forensic evidence, except for unidentified female hair in the back of one murder victim’s car in Essex; however eye witness accounts all put the suspect as an athletic male about 5ft 8, 5ft 9.

  “So he could have an accomplice...”

  “Or the barnet could be a red herring,” said Johnny Too who had already sussed out where this was going. “And you want a bigger fish to dangle to tempt the perpetrator out into the open in a controlled situation.”

  “Bang on,” said Gary Shaw. “The biggest fish – Britain’s Number One celebrity gangster. You! Broadwick’s editor will gee him up to go ballistic about the failings of our extravagantly lenient justice system, the live bait will be cast...”

  Johnny finished his sentence.“And your fish will be reeled in and landed by Sir Robert Peel’s finest sons. Job done.”

  Baker sat back in his chair and smiled ever wider. “So what’s in it for me?” he asked simply.

  “Liberty, John. Pretty much immediate release,” Shaw explained. “Once you’ve done your bit and we’ve got our man, you’ll be back on Civvy Street. Free as a bird.”

  “How will that work?”

  “We’re working through the cover story with the Home Office,” said Rhona Watts. “It’ll be water-tight though – miscarriage of justice involving the extra sentence you got following the raid on your home, which, coupled with your impeccable behaviour inside, will mean that with her Solomon-like wisdom, Home Secretary Theresa May will see fit to order your immediate release.”

  “Under our control, until the job is done,” Gary Shaw added quickly.

  “It’s a good offer,” said Johnny, his blue eyes twinkling. “And I’m up for it. There’s just one condition...”

  33

  Wednesday, November 21. Woking, Surrey, 10am.

  William Broadwick hung up quickly and turned off his mobile phone. He’d only been back in the country for twenty-two hours and Jackie had already rung him thirteen times. Of course he’d ring her back and see her soon, but there were things that had to be done – he’d come back to a mountain of messages, and a treasure trove of emails offering paid work. He had to sort his diary out – his speaking engagements had gone through the roof! Besides, hadn’t she heard of jet-lag for God’s sake?

  Benjamin Franklin had got it wrong, he decided. There were three certainties in a man’s life – death, taxation and women giving you grief.

  Fiona found him on the living room settee twenty minutes later, lounging about in his ancient paisley y-fronts, the most unflattering pants known to man, reading the morning’s papers. She laid his breakfast tray next to him. He wasn’t a pretty sight, thought Fiona, what with the man-boobs and paunch, but at least he was hers.

  Broadwick grunted “thanks” and reached for his favourite bacon and egg sandwich, heavy with Daddy’s Sauce.

  “I don’t like the Sun on a Wednesday,” he said, with melted butter running down his cheeks. “In fact I don’t like any of their columnists much any more. Ally Ross is good, on the odd weeks he bothers to write, but Clarkson’s weekend column is first-thought stuff, Frankie Boyle is a disgrace, Jane Moore is no Jan Moir, and Rod Liddle never quite gets the tone right. He looks nothing like his by-line picture either, in real life he looks more like a large toad-faced sloth.”

  “Oh I like Jane Moore,” protested Fiona.

  “It’s a lazy column. Very little effort. Other people’s jokes. The serious stuff is never more than okay. She probably knocks it out in an hour and a half. It never makes you sit up and think ‘wow, that took guts to write’ – and you did think that with Jean Rook and occasionally Lynda Lee-Potter, and still do with Melanie Phillips.”

  “Lorraine Kelly?”

  “Pathetic. The only one who’s always spot-on is Trevor Kavanagh. You get the feeling that he is Murdoch’s emissary on earth.”

  “Willie...”

  She was changing the subject. Her tone made him wary. “Yes?”

  “Are we still okay for Saturday the 8th?”

  “Saturday the 8th?” He feigned ignorance.

  “The reunion!”

  “Oh, yes, well, if you insist.”

  She reached over and pecked him on the forehead. “Good boy,” she said softly before she stood back, opened her dressing gown and revealed stockings, suspenders and a black lace-up corset. “And good boys deserve treats.”

  Broadwick groaned inwardly but forced a smile. “Lovely,” he said. “Give me half an hour for my breakfast to go down.”

  She smiled and retreated upstairs. He darted to his office and took half of a Viagra tablet. It was important to go through the motions, keep his wife happy, but she never turned him on the way Jackie did. He looked around his office walls, covered with his own laminated columns and framed cartoons depicting him. Some of them, the ones from the Guardian and Independent were quite cruel. But they reminded him of how far he had got, how much he had achieved. So yes, he’d pop pills to keep the little woman happy as long as he could have Jackie as a just reward for his rising profile. He’d have to have a serious talk with her soon, though. She was getting too demanding, too clingy. She had to know that the way they were would be the only way they could ever be.

  34

  London, Soho House. Seven hours later

  Joanna Sutton kissed her cousin on both cheeks and launched into a tirade of greetings, half-thoughts and asides delivered so quickly they could easily have been mistaken for gobbledegook or Klingon.

  The music biz PR was one of nature’s heat-seeking missiles: hard to avoid, occasionally mesmerising and always explosive. She was magnificently cool, with the curves of Christina Hendricks. Her blonde mane was expertly bouffed, her fingers sparkled with diamonds, her cleavage was dusted with glittery powder. Even in the jaded heart of Soho, Jo Sutton turned heads.

  “Lovely to see you, Jackie. Mwah, mwah. God, you’re still gorgeous. Hmm. Cocktails! Yes. Let’s order. I’ve had a frightful day, I’ve had a mare with Celine’s people in Hollywood, still got problems with the accountant over the tax return – have you got any spare receipts by the way? Frightful minicab ride here too. Little Paki driver was like halitosis in a suit. REEKED! Kept trying to talk to me, jabber-jabber-jabber vawt-vawt-vawt....Speak ENGLISH you MORON! Got lost twice, probably hasn’t passed his test, and then expected me to give him a tip. I told him SUCK MY FUCKIN’ DICK, creepoid. Anyway, how are you baby cakes?”

 
; Jackie started to speak, then felt her face start to crumple. Jo was over in a second, slinging a protective arm around her. Jackie started to sob.

  “Not here,” whispered Jo. She ushered her into the ladies where the tears really came into their own.

  “Is it Willie?”

  “Oh Jo, I, I...”

  “Sssh, babes, come on, take your time.”

  “He makes me so mad, I do everything for him. I’ve pulled so many strings for him. I love him like crazy, and he treats me like crap.”

  “What’s he done now?”

  “He won’t return my calls, Jo, he won’t even take them.”

  “Arrogant shit.”

  “I wouldn’t mind, except he tells me he loves me. I’ve got family friends, people you know well, who want to sit down with him and make all of his dreams come true...and, and...”

  “So you’re still together?”

  “Sort of. I think. We were going at it hammer and tongs until he went off on holiday.”

  “With that cow Fiona?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the problem calves?”

  “Yes.” A smile.

  “So he’s had a nice vacation with Her Indoors, realised he doesn’t really want to rock the boat at home, and...”

  “He’s trying to cool us down, I think.”

  “If I know William, and I think I do, I’ve certainly known a lot of men like him, then I expect what he really wants is to stay married and keep you as his bit on the side.”

  “I don’t want that, though Jo. It’s not good enough.”

  Joanna’s demeanour changed. Her eyes turned cold, her face was now stiffened with steely resolve as well as Botox.

  “No, it isn’t,” she said slowly. “Who wants to be old saggy bollocks’ mistress? You deserve much more, my girl. Give me five minutes, there’s someone I want you to meet.”

  In the event, Holly Kirpachi turned up forty minutes later. Jo introduced her as “Fleet Street’s hottest showbiz reporter,” adding mischievously “I thought you two should get together. Jackie knows everyone worth knowing in Parliament, Holly, and you can’t write about Olly Murs all your life...and Jackie maybe you’ll need a friend with the power to break stories one day, you never know.”