The Faithless (28 page)

She sighed heavily again, and lay back on her bed. This had stirred her up inside, and made her think of times gone by that she would rather not remember. She turned her head and looked at the photo of her and her father she kept on her night table. It had been taken the Christmas before he died and he had his arm around her and they were both laughing into the camera. It was a lovely photo and anyone looking at it would never guess at the real Christmas they had endured that year – had endured every year with her mother in control, telling them what Christmas
should
be like. Cynthia thought Christmas was about having all the trappings. With all the wisdom of her age, Gabby knew that was where her mother always went wrong. Christmas was about people, about family – not things, not well-dressed trees and expensive presents, and a roast turkey that could feed a family of fifteen and still have enough left over for sandwiches. It was about enjoying the day, enjoying your family. Her mother had never known what it was to enjoy being with her family, that had always been the trouble.

Now she wanted to see Gabby, and Gabby didn’t know what to do about it.

She was meeting Vincent later, so she would ask his advice; he might not be the sharpest knife in the drawer but he had a good heart. And he loved her, and she loved him, and that was what really mattered.

Vincent was thrilled. He had a good little earner thanks to Derek Greene, and he had just been recruited as a driver on his first ever bank job. He was almost sick with excitement, though he had been sure not to let that show. He had driven Derek and a few of his cronies over the last few years and he had made a name for himself as a good little runner. He always canvassed where they were going beforehand, making sure he knew the route better than anyone who was born and bred there. They never got lost on their way there, or their way home, and he knew that was valued. Some of the meetings had been in very out-of-the-way locations, that being the nature of the job involved, and he had always done his homework. It had been much appreciated, and he had got himself quite the reputation.

Well, it was paying off now; he was going to do such a fuck-off job he would soon be in demand. That was his goal in life – to be the best driver in London. Good drivers had a very important place in the scheme of things, and they were paid handsomely for their abilities. Another year or two and he could marry his Gabby, and they could start the family they were both looking forward to. They talked about it all the time; how they would decorate their house, what names they would give their kids, what kind of schools they would attend. They were going to have children who would be somebody in the straight world, and they would both work their arses off to achieve that for them.

As he parked his BMW convertible in the scrapyard, the same scrapyard where he had witnessed the demise of Linford and Jonny P, Vincent shuddered. It didn’t matter how many times he came here – and that was frequently since Derek now owned it – he still felt the chill of apprehension as he drove through the large wrought-iron gates. It amazed him that the machinery in here was worth millions – it looked like a load of old tat. But he supposed it cost a fair bit to buy a machine that could gobble up cars – and people – and turn a large vehicle into a small block of metal, two foot by two foot.

He walked into the Portakabin, a large smile on his handsome face.

‘All right, Del Boy?’

Derek Greene smiled back widely. He’d always liked Vincent O’Casey, and it had been a pleasure watching the boy flourish under his watchful eye. He was trustworthy and loyal, all the assets needed for this kind of life. Not exactly a contender for
The Krypton Factor,
but a shrewdie just the same.

‘Sit down, mate, the others will be here soon. They’re a little firm out of Manchester, and I have talked you up, so don’t let me down, OK?’

It was a friendly warning and Vincent swallowed down his nerves as he said nonchalantly, ‘I’m easy, looking forward to it. It’s been a long time coming.’

Derek grinned again. ‘Easy, tiger! I had to make sure you were ready before I sent you out into the big bad world!’ Then, in a kinder voice, he said seriously, ‘Look, everyone gets nervous, it’s what gives you the edge. The day you don’t get nervous on a jump is the day it goes wrong. I read a book once about Laurence Olivier, a very talented actor, but he said that he threw up every time he went on stage. See what I’m saying? It’s the nerves that give people the edge. You’ll be all right, Vince, you’ll do good.’

Vincent smiled with pleasure at the man’s words.

‘Now, did you find them a hotel where they can get tooled up?’

Vincent nodded. ‘It’s in Southend. Small place off the front, where a crowd of men from Manchester won’t be too noticeable.’

Derek grinned his usual amiable grin, the one that hid the hard man inside him. ‘Good lad. We can’t have them noticed by Lily Law around this gaff, know what I mean? They want to get in and out in a few days. You know the route, and we’ll talk them through it together, OK? But they are relying on you to get them away. Have you arranged the chop?’

Vincent nodded. He’d already put everything in place to exchange the main motor for a more sedate model that the police would not be looking for. It was an honest motor, a family saloon, but with a revved-up engine in case of emergencies, such as the police recognising them and giving chase. ‘All sorted, and all in place.’

‘Excellent. I think you’re going to be a useful addition to this oufit, young Vincent.’

Vincent was beaming at the praise. ‘Thanks for the chance, Derek, I appreciate it.’

As he spoke, Bertie Warner pulled up outside. Bertie had taken on the mantle of boss with ease, and he was now at the top of this very lucrative game. As he swaggered into the small Portakabin, he was all good-natured bonhomie.

‘Afternoon, my old mockers! I heard a great joke today: Why do brides wear white? Because all fucking kitchen appliances are white!’

Vincent and Derek both laughed, as was expected.

‘My mate Peter Bailey is a funny man, no doubt about it. Shame he didn’t go on the stage really – he could give that Jimmy Jones a run for his money.’

The phone rang and Derek answered it; he listened for a few seconds then passed the phone to Vincent saying, ‘Fucking hell,
no wonder they need a good driver. They can’t even find their way to the Bow Road!’

As Vincent directed the men to the Portakabin, he felt the rush of adrenaline. This was the life, this was the life he had always craved, and it was within his grasp at last. He felt like the luckiest man alive.

Cynthia Callahan – she had dropped the name Tailor after she had left East London – looked around her flat and felt the rush of pride her home always gave her. She was living in a new development called Chafford Hundred, and she had a penthouse that looked over the Thames. She could see the boats plying their trades, and the shores of Kent. It was a lovely setting.

She had bought this place for yet another new start; as usual she had become involved with a man, who had eventually walked out on her. But not until she had bled him dry. She smiled to herself, the smile that made her look like an angel, but actually hid the fact she was a devil in disguise. Amoral as ever, she had understood the need to leave the South Downs, where she had been living previously, sooner rather than later. She had bought this place after reading the advertising blurb and was now awaiting the sale of her small house in Sussex.

Sussex had been good to her; she had quite liked it there – especially Brighton. Brighton had been the nearest thing to London, so she felt at home there. Now, out here in the Essex countryside, she was near enough to London to visit, but not close enough to be a part of it all. That suited her down to the ground. She had the best of both worlds really, and she did like her solitude.

She had already met a few of her neighbours. In the penthouse opposite her was a man called David. In his mid-fifties, he was getting over a bitter divorce – just the kind of man she liked.
Old enough to appreciate her, and young enough to think they had a future together. He had a few quid, drove a decent car, and his furniture was expensive and tasteful. He would be her new conquest, and she was looking forward to the chase.

She opened her bedroom closets and looked at the large array of clothes. She would play the part of a retired career woman for him and, when she finally had him within her grasp, she would start borrowing money from him – just until her money arrived from the Cayman Islands of course. That would be her story. By the time he realised it was all lies, it would be too late.

She laughed with delight. It was so easy to get these men to part with their cash, and they never pressed charges – they were too embarrassed. Lying came easy to her, and she had discovered she was exemplary at it. It was said people who lied needed good memories, which was true! She had a patter, and she never deviated from it. She would talk in telephone numbers, insist on paying her half of any bills or holidays, and she would casually mention all the different business deals she had on the go. It was so easy she could con them in her sleep. Eventually she would need a cash injection, and they would give it to her unquestioningly.

It was only when it started to dawn on them that she wasn’t all she said she was that the rot set in, but by then she was already making plans for her flight. She’d be unavailable on all her phone numbers and gone from her home that they eventually found out had been rented and not owned by her. The truth was she
did
own it, but through a holding company and she rented it to herself. Oh, she was a clever little girlie. No paper trails, no actual criminal act, she just borrowed money. It happened all the time. The police had never once interviewed her, and so she had no qualms about continuing. It was lucrative, and it was easy – perfect in fact.

So why had she felt this sudden longing to see her daughter? She truly
wanted
to see her, see what she looked like, how she
had turned out. Gabriella would be sixteen now, on the cusp of womanhood. Did she look like her or did she now resemble James? Cynthia had a feeling it would be her; she always had, even from a baby.

Cynthia had no interest in James Junior; he was already too far gone from her to be of any interest. But Gabriella had possessed the same spark that she herself did. What she was feeling was in no way maternal, it was simply curiosity.

She knew Gabriella was with her mother and father, and she shuddered at the thought of how she would be living. They lived like tinkers – all TV sets and boiled food. Cynthia had hated it as a child, aspired to a better way of life than the working men’s clubs they frequented. She felt almost sick with shame about her upbringing.

Yet Celeste had loved all that, so had James when she had taken him to the club for the first time. He said it was a great place for meeting up with friends – like he had ever had any friends! To her it had always felt like slumming, but then she was above all that kind of shit. A good restaurant, decent wine and intelligent conversation were beyond these people’s comprehension – they had thought she was a snob, and she knew she was. She was proud to be one. Who in their right mind would want to live like
them?
Hand to mouth, eating food that had more preservatives in it than Joan Collins? Their main topic of conversation was what was going on in
EastEnders.

If she had one regret, it was leaving her daughter to live like that. But then what would she have done with her? She had her own life, and a good life it was. Nevertheless she was curious to see her again. It never occurred to her though that her daughter might not
want
to see her, that what she had done to her family might not be forgiven, let alone forgotten. As far as Cynthia was concerned, she had summoned her daughter to her side and what else could her daughter do, but answer that call? To Cynthia Callahan, that was simple logic.

‘You’re joking, Celly?’

Celeste shook her head, and said seriously, ‘No, I’m not, Mum. She’s frightened to tell you and Dad, and who can blame her?’

Mary felt sick at what she had heard, and if Jack found out there would be murder done. That Cynthia thought she could waltz back into her daughter’s life after all this time was outrageous. ‘She’s not thinking of going, is she?’

Celeste, one eye on the
Trisha
show and one eye on her mother, said honestly, ‘I think she’s just curious, Mum, you know. But I don’t think she wants to go for any other reason than that.’

Mary nodded, but her heart was beating too fast for her own good. She sat on the sofa and bit her lips in consternation. Her first thought was that Cynthia might have changed, but she dismissed that idea as soon as it arrived. This was something far more sinister, she knew that in her waters. If Cynthia wanted to see that child there
had
to be an agenda. So, what could it be? And why hadn’t Gabby discussed it with her?

‘When did this happen, Celeste?’

Celeste shrugged her huge shoulders. ‘A few days ago.’

That explained the child’s demeanour recently anyway. ‘What do you think, love?’

Celeste closed her eyes for a few seconds before saying, ‘I think she should run as far away from her mother as possible and, before you ask, I told her that.’