Barking Boy Page 28

  Tommy turned to look at his brother and sighed. “I don’t know, and that’s the truth. No one knew I met with Hopper, so, as far as I know, my name is being kept out of it.”

  “So, what are we all meant to do now?”

  “Just be careful; watch who is around you. Oh, and I want you going out in pairs if you’re collecting debts.”

  “And what about our Jonny? Is he safe now?” Mitchel asked.

  “Yeah, for the time being, and for as long as Smith thinks that Hopper has the gold. But remember, Jonny doesn’t know anything about this, so keep your mouths closed, okay?” He gave them a smile, then clapped his hands together. “Okay, back to work, and remember, be careful.”

  The brothers and Mad Dog filed out of the office, leaving Jimmy and Tommy alone. “You did the right thing, bruv. You couldn’t go on bottling it all up, trying to deal with it all by yourself. Besides, if they’re old enough to go out collecting debts, then they’re old enough to know the score, and look out for themselves.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Tommy clasped his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Jimmy really was right; he felt an instant relief to have gotten it all off of his chest.

  “So, no more boozing your days away?”

  Tommy shook his head. He turned his face away, not wanting Jimmy to see him blush. “I’m gonna sort myself out. I promised Stacey that I would.”

  “Good. I don’t wanna see you going down that road, bruv. It’s hard to get off of once you’re on it.”

  “Yeah, I know. Right, well, we best get back to work ourselves.” He collected up his car keys. “Let’s get it over and done with, and go and meet with McKay.”

  Danny McKay placed two pints of beer down onto a small round rickety table. He pulled out a wooden chair and sat down. Once seated, he took a sip of his own drink, enjoying the kick to the back of his throat the brandy gave him.

  Tommy leaned forward in his seat. He studied the man in front of him. “So?” he enquired. “What happened?”

  Danny smacked his lips together. “Someone came looking for Hopper, enquiring about the gold.”

  “Who?”

  “Dean Johnson.”

  Tommy felt the familiar stirrings of anger at the mention of Johnson’s name. He looked up, watching as an elderly gentleman wearing a flat cap and a grey, zipped-up cardigan walked through the doors of the Becton Arms. Quickly assessing that he posed no threat to them, he looked back toward Danny. “How does that old cunt know about the gold?”

  “How should I know?” Danny gave a small shrug of his shoulders. “The main point is, he does know about it, and according to Freddie, he’s on the war path looking for Hopper. He thinks he’s had him over.”

  “Well, that’s got to be good, ain’t it?” Tommy glanced across to Jimmy for confirmation, before turning his attention back to Danny. “If he thinks that Hopper’s done him over and fucked off with the gold, then that’s got to take the heat away from us, hasn’t it?”

  “Yeah, true, but the fact he is asking questions is a worry. I mean …,” Danny lowered his voice. “Who else has he spoken to, eh?” He raised his eyebrows. “How long before he actually comes looking to speak to me or Moray, and who else knew Hopper was looking for you? They’re valid questions, Tommy, and we need to know the answers.”

  Tommy sat back in his seat pondering over Danny’s words. “Other than you and Moray, I doubt anyone knew he was looking for me.”

  “What did he want from you anyway?” Danny raised his eyebrows quizzically over the rim of his glass.

  “I’m not one-hundred percent sure, to be honest. He smashed me one in the gut, and said it was from Dean Johnson.” His voice tapered off, realising what he’d said. “Dean Johnson.”

  “There you go!” Danny raised his arms in the air. “Johnson knew that Hopper was planning to meet you.”

  “Nah, doesn’t really mean anything, does it?”

  “I dunno, but one thing I do know, is we need to start moving that gold abroad.”

  “Yeah, I know and Jimmy’s made contact with a fella in the gold business over in Spain.” Tommy looked across at his brother.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy cleared his throat. “He said all we need to do is get the gold to him, and he’ll sort everything else out. He said he’s gonna mix it with copper and brass, so that it looks like scrap gold. That’s the only way you can get it back onto the market. Reckons it’ll be a piece of cake.”

  “Do you trust this bloke?”

  “He was a business associate of Davey’s. Mad Dog has vouched for him, so yeah, I trust him.”

  “And how exactly are we gonna get it over there?” Danny picked up a food menu and studied the contents, recalling he hadn’t eaten yet.

  “Tommy’s got a plan. Tell him.” Jimmy nudged his brother.

  “Well, we can either get the ferry across to Northern Spain, but that obviously comes with a lot of risk, mainly being caught red-handed with the gold. Or …,” he paused, “I’ve got a mate who regularly sails to Spain and France as a courier. He’s, as you can imagine, a bit dodgy, but I trust him not to have us over. That way, we can fly over and meet him there. It’s more or less risk free. Now, Jimmy here, has just bought a bar in Spain, so I was thinking, get all the family to go over to Spain for the opening night, and that’ll make it seem like we have a legit reason to travel there.”

  Danny narrowed his eyes. “Still sounds a bit risky though.” He tossed the menu back onto the table. “If anything goes wrong, it’ll put us in the same country as the gold. So, how much do you trust this bloke?”

  “I trust him one-hundred percent. His old man was one of my first trainers. He’s as sweet as a nut.”

  “Okay.” Danny nodded his head. “We go with the second plan then. Let’s face it, the less risk involved, the better.”

  “Exactly.” Tommy grinned.

  Downing the last of his brandy, Danny stood up, bumping back his chair. “Another round?” He nodded down at Tommy’s full glass. “Are you not drinking that?”

  “Nah, I’m off the drink for a bit. I’ll have a coke.”

  “And I’ll have his.” Jimmy picked up Tommy’s glass, and placed it down on the table in front of himself.

  Shrugging his shoulders, Danny walked across to the bar.

  Once McKay was out of earshot, Jimmy turned to his brother. “You do realise Johnson is gonna come looking for you, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, and I’ll be fucking ready for him. I’ve waited four years for that cunt, after what he did to Davey, not to mention that psycho bitch daughter of his.”

  Jimmy nodded his head. He’d already known that Tommy was going to give that exact answer, and he had a feeling it may well be just what his brother needed—the perfect excuse to let off a bit of steam.

  Dean walked into the reception area of The Soho Club with an arrogant air. He glanced around him, and wrinkled his nose with distaste. He’d never seen the attraction himself, of having a semi-clad woman dancing in front of you with her tits hanging out. He would much rather have had his wife cuddled up beside him on the sofa.

  “Evening, gents.” Lillian smiled from behind the counter. “It’s a ten-pound, per person, admission fee. We’re open until three a.m., and we only have one rule: No touching the girls.”

  Turning to face the woman, Dean looked her up and down. The disgust he felt, clearly evident across his face. “Excuse me.”

  “I said, it’s a ten-pound admittance fee.”

  “Yeah, I heard what you said.” Dean cut off her words. “I want to speak to the boss. Where is he?”

  Lillian frowned. She glanced toward the main doors. “Can I ask what it’s about? Only, if it’s a complaint you want to make, we have a form down here.” She reached underneath the counter, pulling out a pad of paper.

  “No, like I said, I want to speak to the boss.”

  “Okay, I’ll call Mr. Harris and see if he’s available to speak to you.” Lillian picked up the phone.

  “No.”
Dean took the phone out of Lillian’s hand, and placed it back onto its cradle. “You’re not listening to me. I want to speak to the organ grinder, not the monkey. Now, where is Tommy Carter?”

  “Tommy!” Lillian exclaimed. “He doesn’t work here, darling. Mr. Harris runs the club.”

  Dean gave a small nod of his head. “But he does own …,” he looked around him slowly, trying to find the right words, “… this shit hole of a club.”

  “Well, yes.” Taken aback, Lillian glanced nervously once again toward the main doors. Where the hell was Mad Dog when she needed him? “But he isn’t here.”

  As Dean smiled, the two heavies beside him pulled out baseball bats from underneath their coats. They began to smash the glass display boards, which contained posters of the girls, alongside up and coming events that the club offered. “Well, make sure you tell him that Dean Johnson paid him a visit. Can you do that for me?”

  Horrified, Lillian’s eyes widened. She began to shake. “Yes, yes, I’ll tell him.”

  “Good.” With that, Dean, followed by his heavies, turned on their heels and left the premises.

  Still shaking, Lillian placed her hand across her racing heart. She waited until the men had left the building, and then with a backward glance, she ran through the club toward Mad Dog’s office.

  Tommy was incensed. He stormed through the club, with Jimmy by his side. “I’ll fucking kill him,” he growled.

  He pushed open the door to the office, and took in the scene before him. Lillian was sat beside the desk, her face deathly white, sipping on a large brandy to calm her nerves. Tommy walked straight toward her, and put his arm around her shoulders, in a bid to offer comfort. “Are you okay, Lil? He didn’t hurt you, did he?” His voice was gentle.

  Still shaking, Lillian shook her head. “No, just shook me up a bit, Tommy, that’s all.”

  “I’ll bet.” He turned to Mad Dog. “Was it definitely Dean Johnson?”

  “Aye lad. It’s all on camera.”

  “What’s he fucking playing at, eh?” He began to pace the small office. “I’ll kill him, I’ll fucking kill him for this.” Tommy’s voice began to rise, his eyes flashing dangerously. “Give me an address for him.” He stabbed his finger toward Mad Dog.

  Mad Dog hesitated, knowing full well that if he handed over Dean’s address, then a war would more than likely begin between the two men, just as it had with Davey and Dean, and they all knew the outcome of that.

  “Well?” Tommy demanded. “I’m waiting.”

  “Come on, lad. Is that wise? Hasn’t enough damage already been done?” He raised his eyebrows toward Tommy, knowingly.

  “You want to talk about damage?!” Tommy roared. “Look what he’s done to my club, what he did to Davey, what his bastard of a daughter has done to my brother! That slag has fucked him up in the head, and you know she has.” He spat out the words, pressing his finger against his temple to emphasise his point. As much as they pretended that Gary was fine, they all knew that he wasn’t. “And you wanna sit there, questioning me about damage? Because I haven’t even started on that cunt yet.”

  Mad Dog held up his hands. “Okay, fair point, lad.”

  “Well?” Tommy held out his hand. “Are you going to give it to me, or not?”

  Reluctantly, Mad Dog quickly jotted down the address on a piece of paper. Snatching it out of the older man’s hand, Tommy studied the address, estimating it would take him roughly forty minutes to drive to Epping from Soho. “You can either stay here, or go home.” Tommy turned his head sideways to look across at Jimmy.

  “What?”

  “You heard what I said, I’m doing this alone.”

  “Now, hold on a minute,” Jimmy began. “You don’t know what’ll be waiting for you at that house, bruv.”

  “Yeah, I do. Dean fucking Johnson.” Tommy’s eyes were cold, as he looked at his brother. “Now, either stay here, or go home.” His voice broke no arguments.

  Looking from Mad Dog to Tommy, Jimmy’s shoulders dropped. “I’ll wait here.”

  Tommy nodded his head, satisfied. Leaving the office, he marched through the club, his lips set in a straight line. In the reception area, he paused beside the desk and reached underneath to grab a baseball bat. He inspected the wooden baton in his hand, before turning his head to look at the damage Dean Johnson’s heavies had caused. Well, two could play at that game. With one final glance at the smashed display cabinets, Tommy left the club.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Every evening at eight o’clock, Dean called his daughter. More often than not, the telephone was answered by his housekeeper, telling him Bethany couldn’t come to the phone—she was sleeping, or in the bath, or drying her hair. He wasn’t stupid, he knew the truth; his daughter didn’t want to speak to him. He spoke briefly to his grandson, promising the boy he’d be home soon. He smiled, as little Cameron told him how much he missed him, and then promised he would call him the following day. Placing the phone back onto the cradle, Dean took his glass of brandy and sat on the sofa, kicking out his legs in front of him as he relaxed. He closed his eyes, listening to the jazz CD he’d put on the stereo. There was just something about jazz that he’d always loved. As far he was concerned, you just couldn’t beat it. The kids of today could keep their music, house music or something or other they called it. Whatever it was called, it sounded like a load of old tosh to him. He sipped at his brandy, enjoying the way the instruments dropped in and out, creating a masterpiece.

  The sound of a footstep caused him to open his eyes in alarm. He blinked rapidly. Stood in front of him was Tommy Carter. He peered beyond the man, noting that the patio door was ajar. He must have left it unlocked. “What are you doing here?” He pulled in his legs and pushed himself up off of the sofa. When the young man didn’t answer, he repeated the question, his voice louder. “I said, what are you doing here?”

  Tommy took a step closer. He brought the baseball bat up in front of him. “You wanted to see me, so here I am.”

  Dean tore his eyes away from the man to look at the bat. It had always been his policy not to have heavies inside his home. Safe in the knowledge that he could take care of himself, he had never needed anyone to fight his battles, and sure to God, didn’t need anyone now. He began to laugh. “Am I supposed to be scared?” He sniggered. “Because let me tell you now boy, I was out there scrapping long before you were even a twinkle in your old man’s eye.”

  Tommy snarled. “And is that supposed to scare me?” He took a step closer, slapping the bat against his open palm. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this moment to come. The destruction you and yours have caused ends today.” He spat out his words with a confident air, causing Dean to erupt with fury.

  Charging forward, Dean’s fists were curled into tight balls. He swung them toward Tommy, his heavy knuckles catching the younger man’s lip. He felt just a moment of euphoria, until the baseball bat crashed against the side of his skull, and brought him to his knees. As blood sprayed out from an inch-long split across the side of Dean’s head, he sunk forwards, bringing his hand up toward the oozing wound, feeling both dazed and defeated.

  With his opponent down on the floor, Tommy took a moment to bring his finger up toward his lip. He looked down to see a droplet of blood smeared there. Bringing the baseball bat up above his head, he swung it toward Dean, feeling only satisfaction, as each crashing swing hit its target. The sickening crunch of bone fracturing, as the bat crashed methodically against the older man’s flesh, spurred Tommy on. Not only months, but years, of pent up rage flooded through him. He wouldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop, not until he was spent—not until Dean Johnson’s lifeless body lay in front of him.

  Battered, bruised, and bleeding, Dean fell onto his side. His mouth was swollen. He could feel his teeth dislodged from his split gums, he could feel them wobble with every heavy intake of breath he took. He spat out a mouthful of blood, not surprised to see a tooth fall to the floor in a puddle of blood. He brought his hand
up toward his battered face, one eyelid was swollen shut, and he tried to focus on Tommy with the remaining sight he had. “Enough,” he groaned, his loosened teeth causing him to lisp. He put out his hand in a bid to stop the attack. He had clearly underestimated the man in front of him. “The boy needs me.”

  About to swing the bat again, Tommy stopped dead in his tracks, his forehead furrowed. He breathed deeply, exhaling noisily though his flared nostrils.

  “Please, without me, he has no one.”

  “Who?” Tommy demanded, the bat raised above his head ready to be swung downwards.

  With great difficulty, Dean spoke. “My grandson; your nephew.”

  Despite being taken aback, outwardly Tommy showed no emotion. “Not my problem,” he spat, bringing the bat down heavily against Dean’s kneecap. From the loud crack, he knew he’d broken a bone. He brought the bat up above his head, in preparation to crash it down for a second time.

  “She doesn’t love him. She’ll never love him. He was fathered by the wrong Carter.” Dean’s voice took on a pleading tone. Despite the agony he was in, his mind was alert. He began to speak to Tommy as though he were a fellow conspirator. “The boy, Cameron, he needs me, he’s still a baby.”

  Tommy paused, giving Dean enough time to begin to crawl away, leaving a trail of blood across the polished wooden floorboards behind him. Immediately, Tommy’s thoughts went to his brother, Gary. He’d always believed, as they all had, that there was no child. He swallowed deeply, unable to get his head around this revelation. Breathing heavily, Tommy crouched down. He lent his weight against the bat using it as a crutch. “A boy?” His voice was low. He watched Dean carefully, as the elder man dragged himself toward the sofa, finally leaning his back against the plush velvet. “She told me she was getting rid of it.”

  “I wouldn’t let her. He was born in Spain three years ago.”