Jack Collins had a laugh like a mule, a great braying noise that filled the room and made everyone around him join in with him. It was a boisterous and contagious laugh, which went along with his downright infectious smile. Jack was a jolly man, with flush-red cheeks and a big round belly which shook like gelatine with each wild fit of chuckles he fell into. All of these parts of him painted the picture of an easy-going, friendly man, and he was to a degree, but like every man in his profession a happy demeanour always belied the incredibly violent nature lying beneath it.
He had been running things in South London since the late 70s along with his wife Charity and daughter Stella. He and Charity had been sweethearts in school and had never known another love in all their lives, and because of it her death had completely shattered him. She'd had a weak heart, something the doctors had warned her about when she'd become pregnant with Stella. It was during the birth of their second daughter that she'd gone into cardiac arrest; the strain had been too much on her body. She and the baby were both buried in Nunhead under a thicket of blooming laurels, both in white; her in her wedding dress, the baby in a lace-covered christening garment.
Ever since, he'd been close to Stella as a man could be with his only child. They were thick a thieves, got on like a house on fire and it suited them both. Stella didn't have any of the gentleness of her mother; she was calculating and downright ruthless at times. She thought like a man, which made her quite valuable to him, as far as business went. She held her position in the firm quite well without anyone to lean on—and he knew that as a woman and as Jack's child, she would need to do even better than her male counterparts to prove that she could hold her own. It was a struggle she had willingly taken and had exceeded her father's expectations with flying colours, and he was more proud of her than he could ever express with words.
That night, Stella had neglected to join her father in the club. Jack had come to Freddie Evans' place in Barking called Pussycat's. It was the man's biggest club and it was really booming those days. Jack didn't see this as a threat however, especially as he and Fred had a very good working relationship.
It had been a long time before he'd felt this comfortable in East End. Archy Jackson had been a real cunt in his opinion. He spent most of his time slagging off everyone else in London and made plenty of enemies. It came to no one's surprise that one of his own men had topped him. He was as barbaric as the blacks, there was no method or planning behind anything he did, just brute force and intimidation. He preferred scaring people into submission rather than forming valuable friendships, which just didn't sit right with Jack.
In any case, it was a good thing the old fuck was dead. Everyone would agree. In fact the first thing Jack did when he heard about the news was send a gift basket to Fred's place with a bottle of expensive single-malt scotch whisky and invited him over for tea.
In the coming years, Fred hadn't disappointed, either. He had been the brains of the operation for a long time and knew how things worked. Generally, the consensus was that Fred was a decent bloke, and most people liked him. He came on a bit strong at times and could be extremely violent when called for, but that was just part of the lifestyle they had all signed onto, and by a villain like Jack Collins' standards, Freddie was top notch.
They were all sitting at one of the large plush booths in the VIP area of the club, which was roped off and guarded by two broad lackeys in smart suits. They'd all been laughing at one of Jack's jokes, of which he had many and at which he laughed the loudest of all, just as Lenny the Nut strode past the ropes to join them. He was wearing a leather jacket and a tweed cheese-cutter hat that covered his greasy black hair.
'Fred,' he said. 'There's summink you need to see.'
Fred glanced over at the Nut and extinguished his cigarette in the heavy glass ash tray at the centre of the table. Lenny had worked closely with Fred through much of their careers, they were partners, brothers really, and Fred treasured him greatly. Currently, he was his right-hand man, his man on the ground as he liked to say, because it was Lenny who handled most of the daily jobs.
Lenny had intense green eyes and always had a bit of a distant look on his face. Most people thought he was dumb, and assumed he was called the Nut because he was a nutter. But the truth was, Lenny the Nut was really good at using his nut, and was often so distant because he was very deep in thought. He was poetic and thoughtful, and Fred liked him because he kept quiet company. He didn't say much, knew how to swallow his knob, and was a good earner, but was satisfied with where he was at. Perfect right-hand man material in Fred's eyes.
Freddie took his time to stand and excuse himself from the booth, smoothing out his suit as he and Lenny made their way through the crowd. Pussycat's was a lively place, it was one of his most successful clubs and the building he had been operating out of over the past few years. It had the special privilege of being Fred's own proverbial love child, as he'd erected the building from the ground up and saw through all facets of it, business and aesthetic both. He had personally hired the men who worked on it and the people who manned it, and because of his meticulous attention to detail, it had become a real money-earner.
It was his pride and glory, and Fred enjoyed having la crème de la crème of high society over to see it; the big timers, celebrities even, people of all sorts. Only the best of the best populated his clubs, and he was proud of that fact, thought he was bringing a bit of class into East End. They even had traffic from Basildon come to see what Freddie Evans had to offer. Yes, things, were going swimmingly, and when he swaggered through the sea of glittering cocktail dresses and thousand-pound Armani suits, Fred felt like one of the fucking Krays.
The two broad Irish men strode through the throng of people through a private lounge towards where Fred's office was. Like the rest of the club, the lounge was styled contemporaneously, with sleek, black furniture and back-lit wall panels which created a moody, dark atmosphere. The whole place was a wash of pink and lime-green neon lights and the walls were lined with various pop art paintings whose colours were deceivingly masked by the garish hues of flashing lights. There were a few people in there; one of Fred's lackeys was serving up drinks at the small, custom-made bar, another was making himself comfortable on one of the sofas beside a well-dressed woman with an Audrey Hepburn up-do, whose dress had pooled around her waist, exposing her small breasts. Freddie gave her an obvious once-over as he and the Nut headed into the only other door, which inevitably led to Fred's personal office.
Inside, the mood changed drastically. The walls were panelled with giant modern-style wooden rectangles and back-lit with yellow light, so that the entire room was more steadily lit, creating a more serious tone. There a great heavy desk at the far end of the room, a small private bar, and a burgundy-coloured settee, but otherwise the room was sparse, outside a few small photos of Fred and various people of importance hanging on the furthest wall from the entrance, above the desk.
'So what's this about, Len?' asked Fred once they'd reached the privacy of the office. The walls were sound-proofed and the loud music outside had quieted to a distant rhythm of bass beats and unrecognisable instruments.
'It's Tommy McCrory, guv. That young bloke what works on the cars.'
Lenny gently pushed on one of the wall panels so that he could slide it sideways over the other, revealing a section of wall lined with television monitors. They all showed various grainy black-and-white scenes captured on CCTV. There was one for every room imaginable, covering the expansive of not only Pussycat's but other places as well. The screens rotated automatically after a period of thirty seconds but could be altered manually, which Lenny proceeded to do.
A few moments later and he'd brought up a previously-recorded image of the mechanic's shop in Ilford, where Frankie's office resided. Frankie had full reign of as much responsibility as she wanted on the job, which thus far had only been the front and the handling of the paperwork, but that didn't mean Fred wouldn't have her monitored. It wasn't her he didn't trust, in any case. He could never be too careful.
That hadn't been more apparent than in that moment as the small but clear-as-day-itself image of that mick wanker Tommy McCrory bending his sister over the note-covered desk appeared on the screen.
Freddie felt a pang of anger rise acutely in his chest, the anger of jealousy and betrayal that would inevitably manifest in a dangerous way, as most Freddie's intense emotions did. It had been that way ever since he was a boy. His dear old mum Martha, before she had left, always said that Fred never felt "a little bit" of anything; he was only able to manage one emotion at a time, and it controlled every decision he made. It was why, when the time came, he could become incredibly calculated and make intelligent decisions, especially regarding his business, which he was able to handle methodically. But it was also why when he became passionate about something, such as his children or his sister, he often became foolish and reckless. The slightest thing could put him in a bad way if he wasn't careful, and Lenny was shrewd enough to realise this, which was why he was producing his boss a hefty glass of Bushmills while the man seemed frozen in place watching the screen.
'I reckon you'll handle it,' said Lenny as he handed Freddie the glass of amber liquid; it was not even so much a suggestion as a blatant statement. Of course Freddie would handle it. Freddie handled everything.
'Yeah,' responded Fred distantly as he took the offered glass, and still his eyes hadn't left the screen. He sniffed and went on, 'I'll handle it.'
Lenny took that as a cue to leave the room and did so swiftly. Only after Fred had heard the door close behind him did he finally take a swig of the Irish whiskey, feeling the rough burning sensation course down his throat and warm the pit of his stomach. It was the only thing keeping him mentally there, as he could feel himself slipping into his emotions like always.
He couldn't believe her. He could definitely believe Tommy, dumb cunt that he was, but he knew Frankie was doing this to deliberately upset him. Why the fuck else would she be shagging someone like Tommy fucking McCrory? He was a complete moron, a total muppet, not even thirty yet; he didn't offer Frankie anything other than a means of upsetting Fred. It didn't take half a brain to suss that one out, and it wasn't as if she was trying to hide the fact either; he saw her turn her head over her shoulder to look into the camera she knew was there and smile knowingly.
That daft bitch.
He stood there drinking and watching as Tommy's grainy figure on the screen sank back onto the large plush chair behind him, and as Frankie spent some time collecting herself and sorting out her business suit. She piled together the bundles of pound notes and envelopes that lined the desk, crammed them into her bag, but just as she was heading out, she turned around and jutted two fingers in a V-shape up at the camera.
Fred shook his head before draining what was left in his glass. The game was on, and Fred was determined to be kinged.