Freddie and DI Wallace sat on a bench in Hyde Park that brisk spring afternoon with polystyrene cups of hot, sweet tea pressed to their lips. Despite the cold, it was a beautiful day, with the sun hanging high in a cloudless sky, and the sound of children's laughter eddying about, carried by the wind. The mirth seeming to emanate from the spacious park belied the dark thoughts looming in the recesses of Freddie's mind, like storm clouds on the horizon. And in a way, a storm really was brewing, one Fred and his crew were going to orchestrate.
'Might have heard . . . ' began the Scottish detective, eyes cast on the gorgeous green field ahead of him, the same as Freddie. This was their way of exchanging information; publicly, casually, and without pretence. ' . . . that the Greeks are planning something big. Someone might have mentioned that Papakostas was a wee bit upset over some imagined exchange with the Chair of Dagenham's DBC.'
Freddie shook his head a bit and sipped the dregs of his tea, swallowing the bitter-sweet end before he spoke. 'He won't be a problem.'
He could feel Wallace's eyes on him, but didn't spare him so much as a glance, instead focusing on a couple pushing a pram nearby. He knew the detective was wondering what precisely he had up his sleeve, but was too shrewd to ask. This was how they had always operated—they knew the score, but never got too involved. No need to muddle things.
The conversation came to a lull as it often did, and both men watched the goings-on of the park. Everyone was carrying on with their lives, blissfully unaware of the lives hard men like Freddie and DI Wallace led, lives that countered one another yet were more alike than either of them might ever know. Neither of them, like their respective comrades, had the luxury of normality. It was as if they were admiring a feast through the window, salivating with hunger yet unable to reach so much as a morsel.
The detective's Scottish brogue broke the comfortable silence. 'On an unrelated note, I, uh . . . may have heard your name from the beak of a wee bird up north a time or two.'
This caught Fred's attention, and he turned his head to look at the other man, brows furrowed. 'North? Where?'
DI Wallace nodded towards the horizon and rose his cup to sip the hot liquid. 'Manchester.'
Fred blinked a few times, his eyes sticky and dry. Why would they be talking about him up in Manchester? He hadn't been there in years, and as far as he was concerned, he hadn't any loose ends to tie up. He had friends there, surely, as any respectable businessman might, but enemies?
As if reading his mind, the detective leaned back and offered, 'I would think long and hard about who might be angry wae ya, Fred. I dinnae ken whose tea you've pished in, but someone up there is planning something. Maybe something big.'
The gangster ran a hand over his grizzled jawline, brows knitted tensely. The conclusion came to him almost instantaneously, and as the realisation washed over his features, his skin seemed to blanch. 'Mickey . . . It's Mickey McElroy.'
The part of himself that wanted to be hurt wouldn't allow him to. There were no such thing as mates in the world he lived in. Even the relationship he and the detective beside him had was only based on mutual respect and what they could syphon off one another, like some sort of symbiosis. In this day and age, you couldn't even trust your own family, let alone some Irish cunt like Mickey. Well, Fred would be fucked if he let someone take advantage of his camaraderie like that! A fool he ain't, and if things came to blows, Mickey wouldn't be the only one punching.
Regardless, he had to be careful. Things were already tense with the Greeks, and although they were taking care of them soon, Mickey might take advantage of his temporary vulnerability. Fred needed to act quickly and carefully, which meant he needed to have a chat with the boys.
'Bobby,' began Fred suddenly, his expression distant, as if lost in the thoughts swirling around his mind. His hands were trembling, and he suddenly became aware of the small vial of amphetamines tucked into the inside of his leather jacket. '. . . Tell me if you hear summat else, yeah?'
He stood from the bench, leaving the detective to watch as his bulky form strode purposefully down the pavement, blindly tossing his empty cup into a bin on his way. It was a sad day when he could rely on a fucking filth more than his own old mate. Then again, there was no honour amongst thieves, was there.