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At least that way, if they could bury something, they might finally be able to mourn her, might finally find out exactly what had happened to her, and so understand why she had gone. Every Christmas, every birthday, was a reminder of what was missing, what was gone from them. It was the waiting that was the hardest, the waiting for news that could only break their hearts all over again.

Book Three

Non Omnis Moriar.

I shall not altogether die.

— Horace (65 BC – 8 BC)

I will fight for what I believe until I drop dead.

And that's what keeps you alive.

— Barbara Castle (1910-2002)

Chapter Twenty-Nine

'You'll be forty in a few weeks.'

Pat laughed. He was still good-looking but he had the same ruggedness that his father had possessed. Lil had to admit that even though he was her son, he was a good-looking fucker, and he knew it and all.

'Well, Mother, I ain't having a party. We all know what happened at the last one.'

Lil didn't laugh at that. All these years later it was still raw; she was still not over it. Patrick saw that then and went to her and, as he cuddled her, he said sadly, 'I'm sorry, Mum. That was a bad joke.'

She shrugged as always, as if she didn't really care but she did, he knew she did.

'It was a long time ago. It's in the past.'

She carried on tallying up the set of books in front of her and Pat watched her for a while. She was a game old bird, no doubt about that, and he loved her. She was a mare but he loved her.

She was a legend in Soho and she made a point of living up to her reputation. He had gone on to bigger and better things over the years but his old mum, Old Lil Brodie, had taken the clubs and made them into goldmines.

She looked up at him over her expensive designer glasses and he laughed again. 'You look like a glamorous granny.'

'Oh, fuck off and pour me a brandy, will you?'

He poured them both a drink and Lil sat back in the heavily upholstered chair and, yawning, she said with feeling, 'Have you talked to Lance yet?'

Pat had been dreading this but he knew he had to tell her. If he didn't she would only find out on her own. That was, of course, if she didn't know already and was waiting to see if he told her the truth. It wouldn't be the first time she had played that one on him.

He shook his head and she saw the thickness of his dark hair and how much grey was now peppering it. It suited him and she wondered at men; they seemed to age much better than women. The things that pointed out their advancing years were the same things that seemed to make them handsomer. It was one of nature's nastier tricks.

'I'm waiting for him to come in tonight; I left a message on his mobile.'

She knocked her drink back in one movement and held the glass out for more.

'Let me do it?'

Pat was biting his lip. He wanted to tell her to keep out of it but he knew he couldn't. You couldn't tell Lil Brodie anything she didn't want to hear. 'Leave it with me, Mum. I've got it all under control.'

Lil took the glass off him then and, sipping the brandy this time, she sat back once more and looked at him expectantly.

He sat opposite her. She was still an attractive woman and she looked after herself well. He knew she had indulged herself with a bit of nip and tuck. Nothing drastic, just the bags under her eyes and a bit of botox, to freshen her up, as she put it.

She dressed well, tailored suits and designer handbags. And she liked scarves; expensive scarves that she draped around herself artistically. She kept her hair blond but cut short; an easy-to-manage style that suited her elfin features. He knew she still had good legs; he had seen younger men appreciate them and he knew she liked to show them off in her tailored skirts. For a woman who had given birth to eight children, she looked good.

She was thin though. After Colleen's disappearance she had never gained the weight back. She ate like a bird and he knew she didn't sleep enough. But then neither did he.

'Well, I want to be here when you talk to him.'

Pat nodded his agreement. He knew she was not going to take 'no' for an answer and he knew from years of experience that it was better to let her do what she wanted.

'But keep out of it, all right?'

She smiled. 'Of course. What do you take me for?'

She saw his face as he raised his eyebrows and she said loudly, 'Yeah, I know, a nosey old bag.'

They were both laughing now and she yawned, wondering where the night's events would take them.

'Billy Boot is a good bloke and he done a lump, Pat. If he said something I would be inclined to believe him.'

'Even over Lance?' He said it quietly, already knowing the answer she would give, but having to say it anyway.

'Especially over Lance.'

She grinned and he saw the usual look on her face whenever Lance was mentioned or near her. It said that she only tolerated him and it was the truth, because she barely tolerated him at that.

She knew the conversation was over now and she relaxed back into her seat once more and surveyed her domain with relish. She loved the clubs, always had. Pat had taken back nearly everything that had been lost with his father's murder and she was happy to see them thriving and profitable. It seemed a fitting tribute to the man she had loved and lost all those years ago.

She also wanted to see what Lance had to say about Billy Boot's little bit of chatter and, as it concerned the clubs and some of the other business dealings they had, she was not only interested, she was also intrigued.

Eileen was locked in her bathroom; the new bathroom that had cost a small fortune and which had not given her any satisfaction at all. In fact, as she stood there, her hands gripping the sides of the basin and tears not far from her eyes, she wondered what the hell she had wanted it for in the first place.

'Eileen, will you open the fucking door!'

Her husband's voice was loud and threatening and she wished he would drop dead of a heart attack or crash his fucking car.

'Fuck off!'

'Oh, fuck you. I ain't poncing around any more.'

She heard him walking away. He was such a noisy person; he clumped, he didn't walk anywhere, he clumped. He just stamped through life as if he had every right to be there, to interfere and bully everyone. She loathed him and she wondered at times how the fuck she had ever ended up married to him.

But she knew the answer to that; she just didn't like admitting it to herself. She heard the sound of his car starting up and the crunch as it left the drive and then, and only then, did she unlock the bedroom door and go downstairs.

She was desperate for a drink and she walked straight into the kitchen, dragging a stool from the breakfast bar over to the cupboard above the door that led into the utility room and she climbed up and opened it wide. It was empty. Not empty of everything, the cupboard actually housed the electrics for their swimming pool, but the bottle of vodka she had put there earlier in the day was gone.

Slamming the door shut she jumped down from the stool and shouted, 'You fucking bastard! You fucking rotten shitbag!'

The shouting made her feel better, calmer inside herself. Then, picking up her car keys she left the house. Driving to the off-licence a few minutes later, she knew she was over the limit, she was driving too slow for a start and she realised she was already well on the way to complete oblivion.

She abandoned the Mercedes 220 outside the off-licence and then, when she had purchased what she wanted, she walked back to her house happily. Dropping her car keys down a drain, she was laughing at what her husband would say about that when it dawned on her that the keys to the house were on the keyring as well. She broke into the house by smashing one of the windows in the back door. It wasn't the first time she had done it and she left the glass on the floor and the door wide open. Let him
really
have something to moan about, he was only happy when he had something to complain about. He was a miserable cunt and she was sick to death of him and his lectures and his fucking constant drone. It was like living with the prophet of doom. Pouring herself a large glass of whisky, she lit herself a cigarette and then cut herself a line of prime cocaine. Fuck it all, she decided. She was going to have a party.

'All right, Dad?'

Shawn was all smiles as Jambo walked across the pub to him.

'Yeah, son, you?'

Jambo had aged well; in fact, he didn't look much different now to twenty years previously. Pat put it down to him never really having a job or any kind of worries and Jambo secretly agreed with him.

Pat was good to him though, and he knew that after Colleen's disappearance and Lil's illness, the fact that he had been a constant presence had brought the boy round to his way of thinking. They got on well and they had a certain rapport that was unique and helped them to bond.

Poor Lil had never really got over Colleen, even Pat's murder had not taken so much out of her. He supposed it was because women, real women, once they birthed a child, could never imagine life without it. He didn't include Lance in that equation, he could understand her reservations about him. He felt the same way. Lance was not someone you liked, let alone loved. The boy made sure of that himself.

Now this boy, his boy, his Shawn, he was a credit to her. Lil had done a wonderful job with him. They all had. He was so loved and he was so happy all the time that he was a joy to be around.

'You get me a bit of puff?'

Shawn nodded. He had the same dreadlocks and the same smile as his father.

'Course I have. Don't I always?' He passed the grass over, green and fragrant, in an HSBC coin bag, with another big smile.

'It's prime. I got it for meself.'

Jambo took it from him and slipped it into his coat pocket, then he sat back in his chair and waited for the boy to go and get the Guinness that was his staple diet these days.

Shawn got up and laughed once more.

'Look out for Christy, we've got to pick some stuff up before midnight.'

Jambo nodded.

The two boys were exceptionally close and he was glad. He liked Christy, he was a good man. He had none of his father in him but a lot of his mother, thank God. He even had her temper and that had got him into trouble a few times over the years. But he was a grafter, a worker, like they all were.

Now the two of them were the Kings of the Puff and they were both expert at ferreting out the best grass going. A very handy occurrence for him, of course, as he had it on tap whenever he wanted it. He sipped his Guinness a few minutes later and watched Shawn as he looked over all the females in the bar. Shawn had a reputation as a ladies' man; they seemed to fall at his feet on a regular basis. He had the chat and the
easiness
that attracted a certain kind of women. He was out for a good time and a good time was
all
he was after. He was his father's son all right, there was no doubt about that.

Lance was still angry. He was always angry and Annie was frightened of him when he was angry like he was now. He shouted, he raged and he took it out on her. Nothing she did was good enough and nothing she said could appease him in any way. As the years had gone on she had actually become nervous of him, nervous of his moods.

'Do you hear me?' He was leaning over her as she sat in the chair by the TV She wanted to watch her programme, she always watched her programme, and if she missed it she was upset. But she knew she was not going to have any peace until he was spent.

'Of course I hear you, Lance, the whole fucking street can hear you!' The words seemed to do the trick. He stood up then and she saw how big he was. Over the years he had seemed to grow, taller and wider. He was overweight but it just made him look more intimidating. He didn't look happy fat, like most people with his build. He looked dangerous and she knew that he was.

She also knew that he tried to keep his indoor personality on a leash; he didn't want anyone to know how he treated her when they were alone. He bullied her, screamed at her and picked fault with everything she did for him. As she had got older and less agile, he saw her weakness as nothing more than an excuse not to do any work. He took it as a personal affront that she couldn't keep up with his demands on her time any more.

The only person he was even remotely civil to these days was Kathleen and she was as mad as a fucking brush. Not that she would ever say that out loud of course. At least she left the house these days. She only walked to her mother's, admittedly, but that in itself was a big step for someone who had hardly left her bedroom for years. She took a cocktail of drugs that seemed to make her almost human and Annie was grateful for that much at least.

'Fucking summoning me, leaving
me
a message. Not, can you come in, Lance, but, get to the club by nine. Like I ain't got nothing better to fucking do! Like I have fuck all else in my life but pander to him!'

Annie didn't say anything. She wasn't meant to, she knew that much from years of experience. He just wanted someone to vent his anger on and that someone, unfortunately, was usually her. She tried to sneak a look at her programme and she saw Gil Grissom from
CSI
talking away to the blonde woman she hated. But the sound was down and she couldn't make out a bloody word. But she didn't say anything or try to turn the sound up, Lance was aggravated enough as it was.