East End Trouble (6 page)

F
rank had had far too
much to drink. But no one dared tell him that as he staggered about The Queen Victoria, spilling his pint. He noticed people were still looking at him warily. They wouldn’t dare cross Frank the Face, not when he had the backing of Dave Carter, and everyone knew he worked for him.

He could kiss goodbye to that respect as soon as people found out that he wasn’t working for Dave anymore, at least not in any proper capacity. As Frank felt the melancholy descend upon him, he ordered another drink. The barmaid shot a look at the landlord, but the landlord simply nodded, instructing her to give Frank what he wanted. But suddenly, Frank didn’t want another drink, at least not here. It wasn’t real respect these people had for him. They were only treating him well because they feared Dave Carter.

“Forget it,” Frank the Face snarled and turned around, heading for the door.

He bumped into a couple of people as he went, not bothering to stop and apologise.

“Wait up, Frank. What’s the matter?” It was Brian the landlord calling after him. “Come back and have another drink, eh? No hard feelings.”

“Sod off,” Frank said, heading for the door.

He had somewhere better to be. He knew someone who would genuinely be very glad to see him.

Frank smiled as he walked outside and staggered in the direction of the Morton club on Hollins Lane.

When he reached the outside of Martin Morton’s club, Frank hesitated. He may be drunk, but he still had some logic whirring away at the back of his brain. If he did this now, there would be no going back. This decision couldn’t be reversed.

Frank shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his shoes. He’d spent many years working for Dave Carter and had a lot of fond memories of the man. Before today, if anyone had said a bad word against him, Frank would have taken it as a personal affront, and made it his mission to smash some sense into them.

But that was before…

As the memory came back of how Dave had treated him, he felt a coldness creeping into his heart. Dave Carter had tried to get rid of him, and nobody got rid of Frank the Face, no matter how far back they went.

He looked up again at the sign over Martin Morton’s club and then moved towards the door.

Inside it was noisy, much busier than a normal pub. Frank didn’t really care for this sort of place. It was full of youngsters trying to dance and getting pissed. He was the oldest bloke there by at least ten years.

It was so crowded he could barely move, but he finally managed to inch his way to the bar.

“What can I get you, love?” One of the barmaids, a brassy blonde, asked him.

Frank suddenly felt completely sober. “Is Martin around?”

The barmaid nodded in the direction of the door behind the bar. “He’s upstairs,” the barmaid said. “Why don’t you have a word with Big Tim?”

Frank nodded and then jerked his head in Tim’s direction. He didn’t have to worry about trying to attract Tim’s attention to have a word. Tim had spotted him the moment he walked in. That was to be expected, of course, because he was one of Dave Carter’s men and a rival, or, at least, he had been until today.

Big Tim towered over Frank. “What can we do for you, Frank?” he asked. His tone was polite, but suspicion was written all over his face.

“I want a word with Martin.”

Tim stared at him for a long time, but Frank refused to be the first to break eye contact.

Finally, Tim said, “Get yourself a drink. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

Frank nodded and turned his attention back to the barmaid, who had been hovering beside them, listening to the conversation with interest.

“I’ll have a Scotch. Make it a large one.”

By the time the barmaid had given Frank his drink, Tim was back downstairs. “This way,” he said jerking his chin in the direction of the back door.

They entered the hallway and then started to climb the set of stairs. The stairs creaked under Big Tim’s weight.

Frank’s mouth grew dry, and the ice cubes in the drink he carried started to rattle against the glass. He transferred the drink to his other hand.

Tim didn’t ask him why he was here. He stayed silent as he led Frank upstairs and opened a door into a large open plan living area.

Sitting on the sofa, smoking a cigarette, was Martin Morton.

Martin flashed a smile, showing off his gold tooth. “Well, what a nice surprise. Have a seat, Frank,” Martin said, indicating the armchair opposite him.

Frank sat down. His palms felt sweaty, so he wiped them on the legs of his trousers.

Big Tim remained standing beside the door.

“So to what do we owe this pleasure?” Martin said and took a drag on his cigarette.

“I’ve got a little bit of information,” Frank said, sounding more confident than he felt.

Martin looked intrigued. He leaned forward. “And what would that be, Frank?”

“Dave Carter is planning a raid on one of your pubs. And I can tell you which one.”

“And why exactly would you do that?” Big Tim’s voice boomed from behind Frank.

Martin’s head jerked up and shot Tim a scathing look.

Tim shut up immediately.

Frank shrugged. “Let’s just say Dave Carter and I have parted company as of today.”

Martin smiled coldly. “What a shame. Now, what are you expecting in return for this information?”

Frank hadn’t got as far as thinking about that. His mind was focused purely on revenge. But then again, a little bit of money wouldn’t go amiss, particularly now he was officially out of work.

Frank smiled as Martin pulled out a roll of notes from his pocket and began peeling them off. He handed Frank a wedge. “Is that enough?”

Frank smiled. “That will do very nicely, thank you, Mr. Morton.”

“Where and when is this raid going to happen?”

“At the Three Grapes,” Frank said. “Tomorrow night, just before closing.”

Martin’s face transformed into a wide grin. “Then we will be ready and waiting for them.”

Martin beckoned Tim over and then whispered something in his ear.

When he turned back to Frank, his eyes were cold as he said, “I think it would be best if you stayed here until after the raid. We wouldn’t want you to get caught up in it now, would we, Frank?”

F
rieda Longbottom bustled
her way into Morton’s club, carrying her buckets and cleaning supplies. She’d been cleaning at Morton’s club since it opened a couple of years ago. Before that, she’d been employed in a few other establishments owned by Martin Morton.

He was a picky bastard, but Frieda didn’t really mind. He paid well above the going rate, and that was all Frieda cared about. She let herself in with her key and propped open the doors to let a bit of fresh air inside. The place always stank of old booze and stale cigarettes when she got there in the morning.

The bar staff had already collected all the glasses the night before, but all the tables were sticky from spilled drinks, and there were fag ends dropped on the floor.

Frieda gave a sigh and rolled up her sleeves, ready to make a start. She filled her bucket with hot water from the sink behind the bar and began to wipe the tables. She had a method: tables first, then sweep the floor, then mop it and finally she would turn her attention to the WCs.

It was hard work, but it only took her a couple of hours, which allowed her to look after her grandson in the afternoons. The cheeky little blighter was the only thing that kept her going sometimes.

After she’d finished the bar, she usually gave Martin Morton’s flat the once over too. He could be a bit funny about that and had strict rules. She was forbidden from going into the small second bedroom that he used as an office, and every single item of scrap paper, even the stuff in the waste paper bin, had to be ripped up into tiny little bits so nobody could read it. Even if it was something as simple as a shopping list.

In Frieda’s opinion that was more than a little odd, but of course, she didn’t say anything. She just took Martin Morton’s money and kept her mouth shut.

After she’d cleaned the tables, buffing the polished wood to a shine, she set to work on the floor. Bending over with the broom always made her back hurt. It was a large area to clean, and there were a great deal of tables and chairs to move around, and Frieda wasn’t getting any younger.

When she’d finished mopping the floor with the lemon scented cleaner, she straightened up and stretched her back.

She had earned a cigarette. There was nobody around to mind. But just in case, she nipped into the ladies’ lavatories. Martin Morton paid by the hour, and she didn’t want him docking her wages if anyone caught her having a crafty fag.

Frieda lifted up her cigarette and leaned back against the sink before taking a long drag.

As she exhaled the smoke, she looked in the mirror over the sink and grimaced. Time hadn’t been kind to Frieda. She hadn’t lived an easy life, and it showed in her face. She leaned forward to inspect her eyes bags more closely when she heard a noise from outside in the bar.

She froze with the fag between her lips. No one was normally at Morton’s at this time. The staff didn’t get here until the late afternoon because Morton’s only opened in the evening, and Martin never had meetings with his men in the mornings when Frieda might overhear them.

Frieda remembered she’d left the front door propped open. She shivered. If anyone nicked anything, she was bound to get the blame. She’d never had a problem leaving the door open before. It wasn’t as if anyone would risk upsetting Martin Morton by entering his club without permission.

Still, Frieda felt nervous. She removed the cigarette from her mouth and stubbed it out in the sink before cautiously opening the door to the ladies’ toilets and peering out into the club.

She couldn’t see anything at first, so she took a couple of steps forward and suddenly there was a loud bang followed by a curse, and Frieda’s bucket of water went flying.

Frieda let out a strangled shriek as she saw Frank the Face slipping and sliding through the spilled soapy liquid on the floor.

Bleeding hell. What the hell was he doing here?

Frieda just stared at him. The clothes he wore looked crumpled as if he’d slept in them.

Everyone around these parts knew that Frank the Face worked for Dave Carter, and was an arch enemy of Martin Morton. So the fact that he was here now made Frieda very nervous indeed.

“What are you doing here?” Frieda demanded.

Frank turned to face Frieda and seemed to notice her for the first time.

“Who the hell are you?” He snarled and then grimaced and put a hand against his forehead.

Frieda had seen that look many times before. It had clearly been a long night for Frank, and he’d had too much to drink. Frieda guessed he was now feeling the after-effects.

Frieda put her hands on her hips, pursed her lips together and then walked towards him. He must have had a ridiculous amount to drink last night to end up here. She couldn’t imagine where he’d come from. Had he strolled in through the open door, or had he fallen asleep in the gents and spent the night there?

“You’d better not let Martin catch you here,” Frieda warned, pointing a finger at Frank.

“What are you on about, you silly old bat?”

“Well, I never,” Frieda said, outraged. She was ready to give Frank a stern telling off. The man might work for Dave Carter, but that didn’t mean he could talk to her that way.

But before Frieda could put Frank back in his place, the back door behind the bar opened, and Big Tim walked out. His face creased in concern as he looked at Frank and then back at Frieda.

Tim nodded at her. “Can I have a quick word, love?”

Frieda hesitated. As much as she wanted the opportunity to put Frank in his place, she knew she couldn’t afford to upset Big Tim. She needed this job.

“You had better get back upstairs, Frank,” Tim said, looking at the dishevelled Frank angrily.

Tim pulled Frieda to one side and looked down at her. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that Martin pays you very well to maintain his privacy. You mustn’t mention who you saw here today, do you understand?”

Frieda bristled. Bloody cheek. What did he think she was? A grass? She’d worked for Martin Morton for years. Surely by now they knew they could trust her.

“I don’t go round flapping my mouth,” Frieda said. “You don’t have to worry about me. I should think you’ve got your hands full with that one.” Frieda said and nodded to Frank, who was just disappearing through the back door.

F
rank was starting
to regret his hasty actions last night. What had he been thinking? Dave Carter may have treated him like shit yesterday, but what he had done had been ten times worse. He had sold his boss out to his greatest enemy.

He felt like crap, too, and was suffering through the worst hangover of his life. He’d fallen asleep on the sofa upstairs in the flat and then wandered down here this morning to try and get away before anyone noticed him. Unfortunately, he hadn’t spotted the cleaning lady’s bucket on the floor.

Frank walked up the stairs taking each step slowly. Everything seemed to be an extra effort this morning. He had the shakes, and he wasn’t sure whether that was his normal tremors or the after-effects of the Scotch he’d drunk last night. His rolling stomach and nausea were definitely down to the Scotch, though.

He reached the top of the stairs and walked into the open plan living area. Martin was sitting in an armchair sipping a cup of tea.”

“Morning, Frank. You look like crap.”

“I want to get home,” Frank said, gesturing to the clothes he was wearing. “I need to get washed and changed.”

Martin gave him a cold smile. “I don’t think that would be wise, Frank. You should stay here today.”

Frank was starting to feel stir-crazy already. How would he cope for the rest of the day stuck in here?

“You’re treating me like some kind of prisoner,” Frank protested.

Martin took another sip of his tea. “I prefer to think of you as a valued guest, Frank.”

Frank looked down at the floor. What if he’d never let him go?

Sunlight streamed in through the windows. He knew it wouldn’t be long before his former colleagues turned up for work at the warehouse. They always had a meeting first thing to discuss the plans for that day and any problems that might have arisen the night before.

Would they notice that something was wrong when he didn’t show up at the warehouse this morning? Or would they just assume he was still upset at losing his position within the firm.

Frank felt the hope drain out of him and flopped down onto the sofa. He was now in bed with Martin Morton, and would regret it for the rest of his life.