cousin Sammy that had killed him and that’s why I tried to kill Jed. That and everything else, I suppose. I just lost it.’
Babs eyes were like organ stops. Her own sorry tale was just about druggies like Dennis and nonces like Peter, but Frankie’s sounded like something out of one of those gangster movies. A bit like Once Upon a Time in America.
Babs caught her breath and asked the all-important question. ‘Are you sure it was Jed that killed your grandfather?’
‘Absolutely positive. I recorded the evidence on tape, but Jed’s cousin ran off with it, so I have no proof.’
Both girls stared at one another. Neither knew what to say next, but it was Babs who broke the ice by laughing. ‘Wow, man, that is some heavy gangster crap, but Frankie, my sweet child, if we don’t laugh about the shit God threw at us, we will go mad and fucking cry.’
Pat the Pigeon was having one of her nostalgic, melancholy evenings. In the daytime she was quite a happy person. She would spend time with her family, tend to her pigeons and she had the added bonus of Stanley’s habitual visits. However, once darkness fell, Pat’s mood changed. It was only then that she realised what a lonely fifty-five-year-old woman she really was.
Flicking through the TV channels, Pat stared at BBC1 with a glum expression on her face. Waiting for God was on, a programme about people like herself who had no spouse and ended up in one of those poxy retirement homes, sitting in their own piss and shit. About to turn the depressing programme off, Pat was stunned to hear the doorbell ring. She glanced at the clock, it was just gone half-nine and nobody ever visited her at this time of the evening. Pat put on her fluffy slippers and cautiously walked towards the front door.
‘Who is it?’ she shouted nervously.
‘Pat, it’s me, Stanley.’
With her heart leaping out of her chest with excitement, Pat undid the chain-lock and opened the front door. ‘Are you OK? Whatever’s the matter, Stanley?’ she asked as she clocked the dismal expression on poor Stanley’s face.
Stanley nodded to the suitcase beside him. ‘I’m really sorry for turning up here this late, Pat, but I didn’t know where else to go. Joyce has betrayed me in the worst way possible, so I’ve left her. I’ve got the pigeons in the back of the car. I couldn’t leave ’em at home ’cause she’s such a wicked old bag. She threatened to cook ’em in a pie once. Is it OK if me and the birds stay here for a few days? We’ll be out of your way in no time, I promise.’
Pat looked into Stanley’s distressed eyes. She rubbed his arm and smiled. ‘Of course it is, my love. My home is your home, Stanley, and you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you like.’
Eddie Mitchell was having another little bout of insomnia. He had to meet O’Hara at lunchtime to hand over the dosh and the guilt he felt at what he was about to do was eating away at him. Picturing his brothers’ faces once more, Ed turned onto his side and forced himself to think about Gina. He’d sent his fiancée away to her friend’s house while he sorted out the sorry mess his brothers had made, but she was coming back home this afternoon and Ed couldn’t wait to hold her in his arms and tell her how much he loved her.
At thirty-four years old, Gina was nineteen years younger than Ed. They’d originally met when he had found her in the Yellow Pages. Gina was a private detective and Ed had hired her to follow his son, Joey. It was through Gina that Ed had found out the truth about his son’s homosexuality and his relationship with Dominic.
Months after Ed had got arrested for murder, Gina had written to him in the nick and stood up in court as a witness at his trial. They’d sort of got together soon after that. Gina became a regular visitor to Wandsworth Prison and they’d planned their future in the odd hour they snatched together every week. It was a gamble coming straight out of the slammer and moving in with a bird he barely knew, but the gamble had paid off. They had originally rented, but had since bought the cottage in Rettendon and, until all this shit had kicked off with the O’Haras again, had been as happy as two pigs in shit.
Picturing Gina’s naked body, Eddie smiled. Facially she was a ringer for the famous Page Three girl, Linda Lusardi, everybody said so. She was tall, with long, dark hair, legs up to her armpits and a pair of tits to die for. Feeling himself getting harder, Ed lifted the quilt, looked underneath it and smiled. He might be fifty-three, but his king-sized attribute was still in fine working order. Seconds later, Ed heard an enormous crash coming from downstairs. His erection deflated like a burst balloon and he gingerly got out of bed and grabbed the baseball bat he kept underneath it. Ever since he’d been a young man, Ed had slept with a gun nearby, but recent events had made him hide it away from the cottage. Another long stretch for a firearms charge was the last thing he needed.
Eddie put on a pair of shorts and crept down the wooden stairs. He held the bat firmly in his right hand, ready to strike if need be. Daylight was just breaking, so he could easily see where he was going without falling arse over head. The front door was shut, so Ed moved cautiously towards the kitchen. He could have sworn that he’d heard the sound of breaking glass and, if that was the case, the kitchen was the easiest form of entry for an intruder. He checked the windows and door; there was nothing untoward, so he headed into the lounge. Ed’s stomach lurched as he spotted the culprit. His dad’s framed photo that hung on the wall opposite Jessica’s had, for no apparent reason, fallen onto the floor and smashed.
Eddie sat on the sofa and put his head in his hands. It must be a sign, a sign that his father disagreed with his decision-making. Well, he couldn’t go through with what he had arranged now, not after this, and if it turned out to be his own poisoned chalice, then so fucking be it.
Joey Mitchell dried himself with a towel, then looked at his watch in dismay. He liked to have a strong coffee in St Paul’s before he ventured into work, but he was running late this morning, so wouldn’t have bloody time.
Dominic had an important meeting with an investor up in Hammersmith at lunchtime and was still lying in his pit. As the phone rang, Dom answered the one in the bedroom.
‘Joey, it’s your nan,’ he shouted.
‘Tell her I’ll ring her later,’ Joey yelled back.
Stark bollock naked, Dominic ran out of the bedroom with the phone in his hand. ‘You’d better talk to her now, Joey, she sounds in a right old state.’
Silently cursing his dysfunctional family, Joey snatched the phone. ‘What’s the matter, Nan?’
‘Your grandad’s gone. He went last night.’
Feeling his legs go from beneath him, Joey sank onto the bed. ‘Oh my God! What did he die of?’ he whispered, tears forming in his eyes.
‘He ain’t bleedin’ dead, although I wish the bastard was. He’s gone, left home, wants a divorce, the silly old sod. You’re gonna have to come over, Joey. I can’t stop in this house on me own. I’ve already had a large brandy and I’m worried I’ll do something silly and end up back in that nuthouse again.’
‘I can’t come over, Nan. I’m really busy at work at the moment and I need to go in.’
Joyce was an expert at making people feel guilty – she’d practised for years on Stanley. ‘Oh well, if your job’s more important than your poor old nan, best you get off. But,
