break her neck. ‘Oh, Bella,’ he sighed in ecstasy.
‘Gandar!’ cried Oliver Butler joyfully.
Gary Allen picked his fifteen-month-old grandson up and lifted him in the air. He’d been so disappointed when his teenage daughter had first told him she was pregnant, but he couldn’t imagine life without Oliver now.
‘Whaddya think of his outfit?’ Little Vinny asked.
Gary chuckled. Oliver, or Ollie as he was usually referred to, was dressed in brown corduroy trousers, leather boots, a chunky beige cardigan and a check cap. ‘Looks like a little old man. Suits him though.’
Little Vinny beamed with pride. He and Sammi-Lou both loved shopping and dressing their son up to look the business. ‘Once upon a time it was me and Sammi with wardrobes full of designer clothes, Gal. How times change, eh?’ he joked.
Times had most certainly changed. The Beatles and the Rolling Stones had been all the rage when Gary was a teenager, but now groups like Duran Duran and Wham! topped the charts. Women no longer dressed like ladies. They wore ripped jeans and their hair messy. Grown men walked around thinking they looked cool in ridiculous bright-coloured shell-suits. But in Gary’s eyes the most surprising change of all was Little Vinny. Gary had hated the lad with a passion when he’d first started dating Sammi-Lou, thought he was a total waste of space. Thankfully, the lad had proved him wrong. Considering he was still only nineteen, he’d turned out to be a top-drawer dad. He also made Sammi-Lou incredibly happy.
‘My dad isn’t meeting us now. He rung me this morning, said something had cropped up. He told me to pick the suits and he’ll get measured up for his in the next day or two.’
Gary Allen was pleased. He’d never liked Vinny Butler. Michael was OK, but Vinny had a cocky arrogance about him. Having built up his construction business from nothing, gangsters didn’t impress Gary Allen. He was a self-made millionaire through pure hard graft, so why would he be impressed by anything less?
Gary introduced his future son-in-law to his tailor, Maurice.
‘I want all the main men at my wedding to be wearing the same suit as me. My fiancée has chosen crimson for her bridesmaid dresses, so I want a similar colour and style to this, but with a waistcoat underneath,’ Little Vinny explained, showing Maurice the magazine.
‘I have another suit in that colour. Would you like to try it on for size, sir?’
‘You got one my son can try on first? I’m dying to see him in it.’
Oliver Butler’s hair was now a strawberry-blond colour, which today was Brylcreemed with a side parting.
‘Look at him, Gal. Cool dude or what?’ Little Vinny gushed minutes later, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
‘He most certainly is. Looks so grown up.’
Little Vinny crouched down and put some aviator-style dark glasses on his pride and joy. ‘It’ll be sunny in June.’
Gary Allen laughed. ‘Miami Vice!’
Vinny Butler was in a foul mood. He’d drunk a bottle of Scotch last night, had woken up with the headache of all headaches, missed his son’s suit fitting, and was now running late for his meet with Eddie Mitchell.
Cursing as he stubbed his little toe, Vinny punched the door that had caused his pain. Trouble was, the door wasn’t to blame. Bella was.
Vinny stepped in the shower and closed his eyes. Engulfed by hot water, he thought back to the past. Only one female had ever got under his skin in his lifetime: Yvonne Summers. When she’d broken his heart, Vinnie had vowed never to allow himself to be cast under a bird’s spell again. He hadn’t, but there was something about Bella that had an undesirable effect on him, and he was sure the bitch knew it.
The Enemy had learned a lot while banged up, including the art of deception.
Today, he was back in Whitechapel dressed like a geek. He’d purchased the duffel coat, woolly hat and satchel in a charity shop. Glancing at his reflection, he smirked. He looked like a student. To carry books under his arm had been an awesome idea.
Clutching the satchel close to his side, he walked towards Michael’s club. Inside the satchel was the filleting knife and the first opportunity that arose to use it, the Enemy intended to take it. Seeing his father in that hospital, unable to talk or eat, had been a sight that would live with him for ever. No kid should ever have to go through what he had. That was why he’d been so messed up. Not any more, though. He was ready to get even.
‘Sorry I’m late, Ed. The morning from hell,’ Vinny Butler apologized, shaking his pal’s hand. Eddie Mitchell was the youngest son of the legendary Harry Mitchell, and it was well known in the underworld that it was now Eddie who pulled most of the strings within the Mitchell firm.
Ordering the waiter to bring Vinny a drink, Eddie grinned. ‘How’s tricks? Seems like ages since we’ve had a proper catch-up.’
‘All good my end, thanks. How’s Jess and the kids?’
‘Driving me mad and costing me a fortune, as per usual,’ Eddie joked. ‘How’s Michael doing?’
‘Plodding on. His club’s been busy, so that keeps his mind off all the other shit. Still cut up over Adam, but he’ll learn to live with it. I had to with Molly. Made of strong stuff, us Butlers.’
‘Did Nancy’s body ever show up?’
‘Nah. Long washed out to sea, her. Never mind. At least she died the way she wanted to die, so that’s a comfort,’ Vinny replied, his voice laden with sarcasm. ‘So, what’s this business deal you’ve got for me? Fancy opening a club together, do ya?’
Eddie Mitchell chuckled. He liked Vinny Butler, but Vinny had a few skeletons in the closet. Ex drug baron, prostitute basher and suspected psychopath, to name just three. Perhaps one day Eddie would consider going into business with Vinny. But not until his pal had proved himself completely. Eddie was no man’s fool and even though he trusted Vinny, loose cannons were a liability. Eddie only had to look at his own brother to realize that. ‘Nah, I’m not ready to become a club owner yet, pal. However, I do have a container-load of booze up for grabs.’
Knowing that whatever Eddie had on offer must be kosher, Vinny rubbed his hands together in anticipation. ‘Enlighten me.’
Having had no joy spotting Michael Butler, the Enemy could barely believe his luck when he saw Vivian Harris strolling along the street, arms weighed down with shopping bags. He quickened his pace and furtively glanced around. There were only two other people about, an elderly couple holding arms.
Sliding his right hand inside the satchel, he felt for his knife. He was a fast runner, had a change of clothes with him, and an alibi lined up.
He thought back to the last time he’d used a filleting knife. He’d felt no remorse on that occasion, none whatsoever. The incident had happened inside a packed carvery. He’d been a young lad at the time, happily tucking into a roast lamb dinner when he spotted a boy from school. Martin Mabbutt came from a big, loving family, and
