Matilda Wren (15 page)

The air was fresh and the sensation gave Ginnie a feeling of extra energy. She got inside the taxi that was waiting for her at the end of the road. Giving the address to the driver, she sat back and watched the world go by.

She wasn’t really thinking about what she was doing. It was easier if she didn’t. She just kept telling herself, she was so near to the end of the horrifying journey she had been on. It was so nearly over and it hadn’t beaten her. She was stronger than she had ever thought possible.

He had tried to break her but he hadn’t. She was fighting back now. She was taking back her life. He had occupied enough of it. The taxi stopped outside the entrance to the Accident and Emergency department, at the Royal
Liverpool
University Hospital.

“Can you wait? I won’t even be a minute.” She asked the driver.

“Make sure you aren’t love.” The driver replied to her and grabbed his newspaper from the dashboard.

Ginnie picked up the holdall and steadily got out of the car. She walked into the entrance of the hospital and ten seconds later she walked back out again. She got back into the car and the taxi pulled away.

Ginnie had spent a total of one hour with her dead daughter since she was born. The story hit the headlines the next day; it was all over the television. Police requested the mother to come forward, suggesting they were concerned for her welfare and that she may require medical attention.

Ginnie never did.

Chapter 10

November 2002

“Sit yourself down Fergus. No need to stand on ceremony.”

A chair was pulled from the side of the room and dumped in the middle. Sean sat down, unsure as to why he was here in the first place. The portacabin on the building site in Loughton, just off the A1168, served as a makeshift office come tea room.

It was a basic set up with a desk, some filing cabinets and a few half filled book shelves. There were page three pins ups from various tabloids stuck on the walls and the aroma of stale cigarettes and mud from the site hung in the air. An old, worn two seater sofa was pushed into the corner, opposite the door, with a small coffee table placed in front.

The two heavies; thick-necked, shaven-headed hardmen, who had abruptly picked him off Epping High Street and bundled him into the dark blue Range Rover, now stood either side of him as he sat. They were dressed in their traditional attire of dark glasses and long, black leather overcoats, ornamenting lots of bling; chunky gold necklaces, fat silver rings and fearsome tattoos were draped all over them.

He tried to look calm and nonplussed, although the knots in his stomach were in serious danger of letting him down, not due to fear but from his body reacting to the lack of cocaine in its system. It was still early and Sean preferred to spend the morning with a clear head.

By lunchtime though, he was normally bored of the mundane reality and would succumb to the inviting package, which constantly lived inside his coat pocket. Now was about the time the itch begun to start.

Trying to take his mind off the substance he craved, he racked his brains as to why he was suddenly summoned by the man in front of him, without realising he could have quite easily pissed him off and he could be about to receive retribution. The older man was a top class villain. Sean had never met him but knew of him. Numerous thoughts were running through his head.

Had he stepped on this man’s toes? Quite possibly. Had he threatened or hurt one of his employees? Again, quite possibly. Had he muscled in on a deal, unknowing it was in fact being run by the man himself? Sean did have a habit of suddenly under cutting the highest bidder, right at the last minute, but he was normally quite astute when it came to money.

He would do his homework on his business deals. Know exactly who and what he was dealing with before getting involved with anything. Kenny had taught him that.

He watched the man watch him. Sean knew his quiet calmness was unnerving the two tribal warriors standing by his side; this felt reassuring. If they were unsettled, then they had heard of his reputation. Once they had him inside the car, they had actually been quite polite.

They apologised for their rough handling and explained who had requested to see him. Out of sheer curiosity Sean agreed to go, although you didn’t really say no to Ray Jarvis.

Ray Jarvis was an old school gangster. He had started his career as a bare knuckle fighter in 1965 around Spitalfields, when it was still classed as a parish in the Tower Hamlets borough. The east end was notoriously known for being the poorest, most overcrowded and most crime ridden area in London and it gave refuge to an extremely immoral population; women of the lowest character, receivers of stolen goods, thieves and the most atrocious offenders.

The fighting had given Ray the reputation and cash he needed to invest in scrap metal. This career choice served him well for a while, but he was still a young lad with ambition. He had craved the notoriety and prominence that his childhood hero’s, the infamous Kray twins, had enjoyed.

Ray had a business brain. He saw the profit in everything.

It was what had made him his millions.

They had come to watch him fight once, the Kray brothers; one night down a back alley at Spitalfields Market.

Only staying for the fight and not acknowledging him as the winner afterwards. They had bet on the other guy.

That same year, their reign of London’s East End came to an end, when they were finally brought to justice for the brutal murder of Jack “The Hat” McVitie.

Ray didn’t see it much like justice. He believed that The Hat had it coming and didn’t really think it was anything to do with society. Old school gangsters only participated in their own world. The world of ordinary, regular people were quite safe, however the government and police didn’t seem to think so and were hell bent on bringing as many of them down as they could.

Ray ran his scrap metal business for about five years before he moved into operating fruit machines. This new business venture was not as much of a step back as it may at first sound. They were fronts for underworld activities, including protection rackets, theft, fraud, stolen goods and usury; where extremely, irrationally, high and illegal interest rates on loans would be charged.

This is what he became incredibly good at, but from time to time he missed the brutality of his fighting days.

Occasionally he would suggest to a pub landlord that they should buy one of his fruit machines. Failure in doing so would mean running the risk of having the pub burnt to the ground. Sometimes he needed to exert the harassment and intimidation, for peace of mind. So he knew that people were still scared of him.

At one point he had been arrested for receiving stolen goods but was acquitted through lack of evidence and with the help of a large donation to the Police Fund. After this, he learnt that it was important to have friends in every corner and made a point of seeking out high ranking officers and politicians, just in case an ambitious police scrote thought he could climb the career ladder by bringing him down.

Towards the end of the 1980’s, Ray’s risk-taking nature progressed further and he began to invest in fraud schemes known as Long Firms. A new corporation would be set up by an associate, who was lucratively rewarded for the prison term he would eventually serve.

The new corporation would direct standard business for some months, constructing lines of credit and winning the trust of suppliers, which would lead to the new business eventually being able to place a very large order on credit.

The goods would then be sold for cash, the money pocketed and the company and those involved in running it would suddenly ‘disappear’.

Of course all names on official documents pertaining to the new business would have been faked, except for the fall guy, who was always going to end up taking the can for it all anyway.

The reason he was successful and that he had enjoyed a twenty year reign over the East End, was because he had kept his hand in everything he did. If somebody was trying to double cross him, he would know about it. If someone was cheating or stealing from him, he would know.

He had a loyal crew behind him and allies in more than enough faces around the North and South. He paid well and could be trusted. It was that simple.

That didn’t mean he wasn’t a complete ruthless bastard when the mood suited him, which made him highly feared within his social environment. It was this thought that had Sean’s stomach in knots. He wasn’t scared as much as uneasy about his situation.

If it came down to it, Sean would fight his way out; already registering the filing cabinets being an ideal object to barge the dense as wood thugs with; they were not a problem for him as far as he was concerned. It was the older man that sat opposite him, behind the desk.

Ray Jarvis, Sean knew would be just as quick and psycho as he himself could be. It was always a sobering realisation, when he came across somebody else who listened to that demon voice that lives inside everybody’s head; and it does, no matter how much you deny it or ignore it or fight it, that voice lives inside every single person no matter how good and wholesome you live your life. It resides in your head, rising up every now and then, when you’re angry and mad.

It whispers at you to punish the cause.

Sean believed it was there in everyone, but it always surprised him when he met someone else that indulged in it and enjoyed it as much as he did. Ray Jarvis was one of these people. The older man was an out and out thug. If the rumours and stories were true, armed robberies, arson, protection rackets and violent assaults, including torture, were just a few past jobs on Ray’s long and comprehensive C.V. The torture varied in degree of brutality, depending on the crime against him, but his specialty was giving electric shocks until his victims were unconscious, inflicted by a hand-crank-powered generator. The victim had the terminals attached to their nipples and genitalia and were then placed in a bath of cold water to enhance the electrical charge.

Afterwards, if victims were badly injured, they would be sent to a doctor; normally one who was no longer allowed to practice. Ray always saw that as a generous touch. Not harbouring hard feelings, believing he was a fair and just man. Dishing out the punishment and then moving past it. Also in the Portacabin with Ray and his henchmen was Davie Newman, Ray’s right arm. Wherever Ray was, Davie would be too. He was Ray’s official negotiator.

This is someone who focuses their talents in arbitrating arrangements between two or more parties. Most negotiators act for a particular party involved in the deal.

Davie was the only man Ray had ever trusted and was constantly by his side. He never spoke unless he was spoken to and had the nickname Silhouette as he was constantly Ray’s shadow. He was an incredibly articulate man, who could convince you he was the perfect gentleman, yet had the ability to switch to a sewer mouth when the need occurred.

Constantly dressed in black, with a long knitted overcoat and black leather gloves, he had long grey hair that he wore plaited and a Fagin style moustache. Davie’s mantra was ‘Make them an offer they can’t refuse’ which he stole from his favourite film, The Godfather. However, unlike Marlon Brando’s character, Davie knew the expression did not always need to be immersed in oblique threats and coercion to be of use or valuable.

Sometimes it simply meant coming up with a solution that the other party couldn’t turn down. He followed a basic technique that had served him well in his twenty year career. Firstly he would isolate the problem that his solution was supposed to fix. Then he would do his homework, ascertaining what modus operandi’s the other party’s were currently using to solve the problem and how much that cost.

Lastly he offered a cheaper and more effective alternative.

It was all about being able to read a situation and knowing what the other party needed or wanted. In these instances, it sometimes made sense to make an offer that is designed to fail. This is where he played the
Wise Guy
. It is a time-honoured method of good negotiating and effective extortions, to not kill a deal by pushing too hard.

When Davie made an offer that he knew would be refused, what he was really doing was setting the stage for when he made a more compelling offer later on. These future offers then appeared so much more reasonable, in comparison to the offer he initially presented.

Another reason for making an offer that a party may refuse is when the other side starts to believe that perhaps no agreement may be able to be reached, they are often likely to drop their ‘negotiating face’ and speak candidly. This offers a chance to discover their real motivations.

Once Davie had this information, he would be well positioned to use this knowledge, to make a follow-up offer that will be more acceptable than the first.

But above all else, successful and efficient negotiators understand that time trumps everything, because time brings power. Davie knew this. He has all the time in the world and will exploit this strength for all it’s worth, letting his victims stew. It gives him power and power creates fear.