Ruthless - [15]

The old Delaney manor was now under the control of the Carter mob. Even the tiny bit of Limehouse the rival gangs had been squabbling over for years had fallen into Carter hands. As time went by, he pieced together bits of the story of how that came to be.

‘Christ, it was a right old bang-shoot,’ said Gabby James, one of Rufus’s new drinking buddies. ‘Word is, Redmond and Orla stuck Max Carter’s missus in the bloody crusher – she would’ve been squashed like a grape.’

‘Would have been?’ Rufus was downing a pint of Guinness.

‘The Bill got to her first.’

‘What about Redmond? What about Orla? They’re back in the auld country, are they?’

Gabby puffed out his cheeks and shook his head. ‘I heard they took a plane from Cardiff to Cork, or was it Dublin?’

Rufus thought of the farm in Limerick. ‘Shannon, I would think.’

‘Well, wherever. It never landed.’

‘You what?’ Rufus spilled his Guinness. He’d not had much to do with Redmond, but Orla… ah God, there was something about Orla that had eaten into his very soul.

‘It was in the papers, what, three years ago? Nineteen seventy it was. Where have you been, on the moon? They reckoned the plane crashed in the Irish Sea. No bodies were ever recovered. Not even a scrap of wreckage.’

Rufus stared into his beer, deeply troubled. He couldn’t bear to think of Orla perishing that way, in the icy churning waters.

‘Rumour has it that while Max Carter was away, his old lady was mucking about with some Mafia type from New York, and that one arranged the crash. Which is entirely possible, it seems to me. You don’t mess around with those people, they’ll have your guts.’

Rufus heaved a sigh. Jesus. Orla, gone. He looked at Gabby. ‘What else do you know about the Carters?’ he asked.

Gabby filled him in.

Rufus felt as if the heart had been knocked out of him. His mind was full of Orla, full of those sunlit days in the garden when they were young and carefree, when he had kissed her. Sadness gripped him to think of her gone for ever. And anger took hold as he thought of the Carters, the trouble they’d brought upon her.

But he had to keep his head down, even over here. If he was going to keep out of Don’s way, it would be better not to make waves. He was safe here, and he could make a life for himself, provided he wasn’t stupid. And he wasn’t, despite what his cousins Tory and Pat had said.

‘Rufus the DOOFUS,’ they used to shout when he’d visit the farm to play. ‘Rufus the DOOFUS!’

Only now he wasn’t a hulking inarticulate thug of a teenager, upset by such goadings. Now, he was a man in his prime. Gang bosses saw his worth and made good use of him. He was a freelancer, a mercenary, hiring himself out to the highest bidder, with no loyalty to anyone but himself. The only gang he would never work for was the Carters. He spat on the ground every time their name was mentioned.

Once, he saw her, Annie Carter, sweeping out of a black Jaguar with a bulky bald-headed minder at her side. She was a stunner, he had to admit that. Dark hair falling around her shoulders, the black coat, the heavy shades, the red full mouth set in a grim line. She looked both exceedingly sexy and completely formidable.

The gangster woman.

Married to one gang overlord, Max Carter.

Then married again – to Constantine Barolli, Mafia boss. A bona fide Mafia queen.

And she looked it, every inch of it. Dangerous. Alluring. Expensive.

If she truly was behind the deaths of Orla and Redmond, revenge was on the cards. But that would have to wait. For the time being, he was keeping a low profile. Doing jobs. Breaking a leg or two. Intimidating late payers with his fists or a baseball bat. And always a trip to the confessional afterwards. Time passed in a blur. He was enjoying the city life and the rewards that his choice of career brought him, which were plentiful.

Soon he had his own flat, more willing girls than he could handle, a nice motor. Life was sweet.

And then, in the way that life does, it all came crashing down on him once again.

16

1980

Rufus had been up to Chingford on a little job, chasing a late payer for one of the Pozo boys. The Pozos were Italian immigrants, avaricious loan sharks. Rufus had to wonder at people allowing themselves to become embroiled in the webs the Pozos spun. Did being poor make you stupid?

No – but he guessed it made you desperate enough to deal with scum like the Pozos. Borrow a thousand quid off them, and soon you owed fifteen hundred as the interest racked up. Six months down the line, after a few late payments, you could be looking at three thousand.

Which of course you couldn’t pay back.

Then the threats started.

Big men turning up at your door with dogs snarling and straining at their leashes, taking your telly, your fridge, anything saleable. Object and you’d get a slap. Default after that, and you’d be in for much worse. Somehow, you had to get the money. So you stole it off family, or employers, or any fucker, you were that desperate, there were heavies after you, nowhere was safe any more.

Whatever it took, you paid up.