Trust (11 page)

“Taylor?” he said. “You’re
Stella’s
kid?”

It wasn’t simply that he knew my mother’s name. It was the way he said it.
You’re
Stella’s
kid?

That, more than anything up to that point, convinced me that there was a whole lot more to my family’s London history than I’d ever suspected.

§

The driver let us out by the station, but instead of heading inside, DI Glover led me a short way down to a busy street and then left to a small café where he ordered two coffees without asking.

We sat at the back, at a small, wobbly table. From the number of slightly shabby suits in here, this must be a popular spot to get away from the station, I guessed.

“Stella Conran. Married Phil Taylor, didn’t she? She always was one of the good ones, you know?”

I didn’t. It was clear there was so much I didn’t know. “What do you mean?” I asked him. The DI’s entire manner had changed since he’d worked out who I was.

He waved a hand, taking in the small interior of the café, the street outside, and by implication the whole East End of London. “This place,” he said. “It gets in your blood. It’s in
your
blood, even though you’ve never lived here. That’s just the way it is. You’re a Taylor, a Conran. It’s like being a Bailey or a Glover. It’s who you are, isn’t it, love?”

I still didn’t understand.

“All this,” he said. “Your folks, they decided to make a break. But it’s never that easy. It always follows you.”

“They’re dead.”

He nodded, not surprised. “I know. Sad news, when I heard that.”

“Were they...?”

“Involved?” He shrugged, dismissively. “No more than anyone is who’s grown up knocking about with the Bailey Boys. They were good people. Had standards, you know? Listen, I’m sorry about all this. Picking you up like that. Throwing my weight around. If I’d known who you were...”

I could hardly blame him. It seemed even
I
wasn’t so clear about who I was any more.

“I meant what I said about Dean, though,” he went on. “He’s a wild card. He’s trying to live in the past, but this is the 21st Century. The Iron Curtain’s history, and they’re all here now. Primakov, Salko and Davydov, and all the rest.”

The names meant nothing to me. Maybe one of them was the real name of the one Dean nicknamed ‘Putin’.

“We’ve got to move with the times, you understand what I’m saying?”

I listened, but a part of my mind was preoccupied with what he’d implied about my family, my parents.

“The way it all works isn’t much different to how it was fifty years ago. Back then it was the Krays and the Richardsons and the like. They ran things at the top, kings of their own patches. They ran their own rackets and scams, but they also kept the rest in line: all the petty thieves and street-corner gangs. None of them even dared to blink if the Krays didn’t want them to. Nowadays it’s the estates. Kids in expensive trainers and hoodies selling weed and meth and shit like that around the tower blocks. No-go areas for the likes of me. And just like the old days, they report up the chain.”

“To people like Dean.”

That smile again, the one that wasn’t really a smile.

“Oh, back in the day, yeah,” said Reuben. “Back when their old man, Ed, was running things, sure. He was proper old school. Kept all the low-lifes in line. Kept the streets about as safe as they were ever going to be. I reckon Eddie Bailey was the last of a dying breed, though. Now it’s the Russians and Ukrainians, a few Turks and Latvians. Dean and his brothers just don’t get it that the time’s long since past when they should have got out of all this. It’s a cut-throat business. Literally.”

At first I’d thought Reuben was rambling. Some kind of nostalgia thing, old times’ sake when he’d realized who I was.

But now I saw the look in his eyes.

There was nothing vague or unplanned in this monologue.

It was a calm, calculated threat that I was to pass on to Dean.

“You think he should get out?” I said. “You think he even
can?
”

The policeman shrugged. “I reckon he’s going to have to get out of it one way or another. I tell you one thing, though: if you have any influence over him at all, you’ll try to get him to see the reality. The Bailey Boys are history. You saw how it was last night. Looking around that little gathering, who do
you
think were the people who own this place, and who were the ones who’d already lost it?”

§

DI Glover offered me a lift back. He pretty much insisted: he’d dragged me here without giving me any say in the matter, after all.

But I refused. I needed to clear my head. I had a map on my phone and the distinctive high-rise developments of Docklands ahead of me to guide my way. Maybe an hour walking on a crisp spring day through the East End of London would help.

So many thoughts in my head!

One thing was certain: my plan to find my Mini and quietly slip away was a non-starter now. Reuben Glover had made it clear enough he expected me to pass on his – threat, or warning, whatever it was – to Dean.

And there were too many questions in my mind.

My parents, my grandparents... If Reuben knew so much about them, then surely Dean must know more than he had admitted, too.

I knew nothing about their lives here, before they’d moved away from the city. I knew nothing about the money that had been used to start their property business – the business that I, in name at least, was now responsible for.

Was I, by inheritance, some kind of crimelord, too? Ridiculous as the thought was, I couldn’t let something like that lie.

Which meant I couldn’t leave.

Which in turn meant I would have to seek out Dean again, and that I couldn’t avoid the warnings Reuben had made about the Bailey Boys being out of their depth, that something nasty was going to happen soon.

With every step I took on that hour-long walk back to Poplar, I felt myself getting sucked deeper in. Dragged back down to something far more scary and dangerous even than the life I’d recently escaped, those eighteen lost months after the death of my parents.

And no matter how I looked at it, I could see no alternative.

One steady step at a time.

Doctor Malik came back into Lee’s room and gave Dean the low-down on the damage.

“Nine sutures above the left eye, three to the lower lip. Multiple contusions about the left eye and elsewhere on the face, with accompanying swelling. Mild concussion last night, so he’s staying here until I’m satisfied there’s no lasting damage. Multiple contusions to the upper body, and a hairline fracture to the ninth rib on the left-hand side. Various other minor abrasions and contusions, and some muscle damage.”

“A few bumps and bruises is what you’re saying, right?”

Malik looked from Dean to his brother and back. “I’d say, yes indeed, your brother got off lightly, Mr Bailey.”

“Cool.”

“And you...?” Malik nodded towards Dean, indicating his damaged face.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” Dean said.

Malik checked him out, regardless. A short time later, Dean had a clean bill of health, save for his collection of mild cuts and bruises.

“You are lucky men,” said Malik. “Both of you. Next time it might not be so.”

Dean waved the warning away. “No worries, Doc. Me and Lee, we’re good. We can look after ourselves.”

Malik didn’t need to say anything out loud for his verdict on Dean’s words to be clear. To the doctor it was only a matter of time before one or more of the Bailey Boys suffered a lot worse than a few cuts and bruises.

§

Out in the Beamer, Dean sat for a good few minutes before easing out into the traffic.

The doctor’s warning didn’t bother him. There was nothing new in that.

It was Jess Taylor.

How had that thing gone from distrust and playing her along to... to whatever had swept over him last night?

She’d got under his skin, and that wasn’t something he ever allowed to happen.

He hadn’t even shaken off the whole distrust thing! Sure, parts of her story hung together, but there were huge gaps. Exactly what you’d expect from someone who was trying to infiltrate your organization. Someone trying to get... under your skin.

Was he being played for the biggest sucker in East End history?

He shook his head, slapped a hand onto the wheel. How could he believe that? There were some things you just couldn’t fake.

He couldn’t work her out.

And he didn’t even know if he’d see her again. She could easily just slip away this morning while he was out. But he’d had to come and see Lee – see whatever state he was in for himself. A man can’t duck out of that kind of responsibility. He’d put the kid in that ring, after all.

Would she be at the house when he got back? He’d said he’d see her later, but that was such a meaningless phrase. She might not have realized he’d meant it. Hell, he didn’t even know if he
had
meant it at the time.

He shook his head, sitting there like a madman at the wheel of his BMW.

He did.

He did know that he’d meant it.

He’d wanted to see her later. Wanted her to be there, waiting for him when he got back. Ideally, still naked in bed, half-covered in that tangle of bedding, still smelling of sex.

He’d wanted nothing more than that.

And that... understanding that... it was even scarier than the moment the night before when he’d realized he wanted her so much. When he’d started to understand that she was getting under his skin like no-one had ever managed to do before.

§

He hadn’t expected to see her again so soon, though. Hadn’t expected his world to be tugged out from under his feet so cruelly.

He drove around the top side of Victoria Park and down past Cambridge Heath to Roman Road. A short distance along, there was a row of shops on the left: a newsagent, a travel shop, a little café that was frequented by coppers from the station round the corner.

It always paid to know about these little landmarks: the coffee shops and takeaways, the pubs – often run by ex-coppers – where officers would go at the end of a long day busting crime.

These things were almost as important as knowing who played by the rules and who was on the take, the coppers, the judges, the officials of various stripe.

As usual, the traffic was barely crawling along Roman Road at this hour, and so it was normal for Dean’s BMW to slow to walking pace, pause, ease forward, pause again just outside that particular café.

Normal for him to look across, see the two them sitting at a table tucked away towards the back.

Jess and Reuben.

Thick as thieves, if you’d forgive the irony.

He drove on, edging forward. Resisting the urge to slam the handbrake on and jump out, march over there and confront them.

What were they up to?

Reuben, fair enough. He’d always been on the take but at the end of the day he was still police; for someone as untrustworthy as he was – which was going some – you still always knew where you stood, if that made any sense.

But her. Jess fucking Taylor.

It hit him in the gut harder than any of the blows at the fight the night before.

He hadn’t known where he stood with her.

He’d had his suspicions.

He’d had his hopes, too.

But now those hopes were gone.

§

He kept driving. Didn’t deviate.

He knew well enough that you don’t just lash out.

Yeah, yeah. Despite the way he’d taken out Putin’s boy the night before.

You don’t do anything in this world without thinking it through carefully first of all.

So he drove.

Fifteen minutes later, he’d pulled up on the narrow street by the house where he’d spent the previous night with Jess.

He still hadn’t worked out how he was going to play this.

There could be an entirely innocent explanation, of course.

Or she could be a plant, just as he’d suspected from the start.

He didn’t like the thought that Reuben might be setting him up. They didn’t do things like that. Dean was a
Bailey
. Reuben had grown up on these streets with the Bailey Boys, before they’d settled on divergent routes. He was virtually family.

What had happened to the respect? Where had the trust gone?

The house was empty. He knew as soon as he’d closed the door softly behind him and taken a couple of breaths.

It wasn’t an instinct thing, it was professional. The silence, the way the air felt undisturbed. The way nothing was out of place, no shoes or coats or cups. Someone could be hiding, of course, but nine times out of ten a professional could assess the risk of a house within a few seconds of entering.

She wouldn’t be here, of course. There’s no way she would have beaten him here. But still... he was on edge.

If nothing else, this thing was a salutary reminder never to drop his guard.

He found the note in the kitchen. The thank you, the kisses, the phone number. That last was a clever touch, if she was indeed suckering him in: it didn’t commit
her
to pursuing this – she’d left her number so now it was down to Dean. If her handler thought it wise to pull back, then she could just ignore any approaches. But that invitation to communicate, keeping the channels clear... it left things open. Dangling.

It left
him
dangling.

He folded the sheet of notepaper and slipped it into an inside pocket, next to his Glock 17.

He still hadn’t worked out how to handle this turn of events.

He knew it was wisest to play along, but he was rattled by how easily she’d penetrated his defenses, undermined his better judgment. He couldn’t risk letting her get close again.

All those responses, the things he’d felt for her – things he’d
thought
he felt – he knew they were worthless now. Illusions.

He left the house, paused by the BMW, then decided to walk. It was only a few streets to where she’d left her Mini. Dark blue, registered in 2011, with a gym parking badge on the passenger window and a long scrape along the near side.

He’d had it checked out yesterday. A quick call to someone who would ask a few questions, find out how she’d got here, check that her real name was, indeed, Jessica Taylor of the Taylors formerly of this parish.