it, Jackie, and go back to bed,’ he said calmly.
Jackie wanted a row; she needed to vent her anger, but he wasn’t having any of it.
‘Oh, that’s it, Mike. You just bury ya fucking head in the sand … Look at ya. Think ya better than me, acting like I don’t even fucking exist.’ With her face screwed up, she egged him on, eager for a fight. Anything to get his attention – any attention.
‘I’m warning you, Jackie. Go back to bed, or I’ll forget you’re a fucking woman.’
His deep raspy voice would have turned her on a few years ago but not anymore. She hated him – she hated everyone. Now she saw a change in his expression; it was a coldness that crept across his face. She hadn’t seen him like that before and thought perhaps she’d pushed him too far, but the drink fuelled her on and she lashed back again. ‘Oh yeah, fucking hardman. Well, you lay a fucking finger on me and you just watch. You’ll be seeing that kid of yours from behind bars, and only if I fucking say so. I have so much on you, Mike, that you’ll go down for a long time.’
That was the last straw. The thought that she could grass, and even worse have control over their son, incensed him, taking him to a pitch that would see the red mist come down. In one fluid movement, he leaped from the bed and lunged towards her, grabbing her by the hair and throwing her to the floor.
Her cheek caught the corner of the bedside cabinet, causing her to let out a dramatic scream.
Sucking in a deep lungful of air, he slowly calmed down and glared at his wife, who was squirming around on the floor.
‘You bastard!’ she yelled with a wilful jeer.
He sighed with relief that he hadn’t killed her. But when he clocked her malevolent expression, he wished he had. No woman had ever pushed him as far. Wife or not, no one would make threats concerning his son. Yet hitting her went against everything he stood for. Things would have to change.
He had only been with Jackie for seven years, having met her at his twenty-seventh birthday bash. She was stunning back then, a natural beauty. Her confidence was what had attracted him to her. The party was a big affair with friends and wannabe mates all trying to buddy up to him. He had money and a reputation, but he wasn’t stupid; he kept only a handful of close friends who were his business colleagues.
Then Jackie arrived with his brother’s girlfriend. Tall and slim, with blonde waves tumbling down her back and shrouded in assurance, she swanned over to him and gave him a birthday kiss. He remembered the sweet smell of some expensive perfume, and how he’d decided to engage in conversation. Little did he know that all the bull she plied him with that night was just to get that fucking great diamond on her finger. She was a wild spirit and had no intention of sticking to one man. Her subtle make-up and sweet expression were deliberately aimed at getting what she wanted. She wasn’t sweet at all, but by the time he realized what she was all about, he was up the aisle saying ‘I do’ and little Ricky was on his way.
He should have listened to his head when he saw the subtle changes; after all, no one can hide their real persona for very long. Perhaps it was the age gap, for she never settled down, always wanting to party and get pissed. But he was firm and put a stop to her antics with frustrating consequences. So she turned to drinking indoors during the day.
She got to her feet and shot him an acid glare. ‘You, Mike, will wish you’d never done that.’ She wobbled away, back to their bedroom, leaving him wound up and needing another stiff drink.
As he made his way down the stairs, his phone vibrated in his trouser pocket. He checked his watch; it was 2.30 a.m.
It was Eric, his brother. ‘What’s up? It’s fucking early doors, mate.’
‘You best get back over to the lock-up. We’ve discovered something you might wanna see.’
Mike ran his big thick hands through his loose waves and then scratched his bristles.
‘Okay, mate. Give me half an hour.’
He didn’t ask what. He didn’t like to talk too much on the phone, just in case. He dashed back up the stairs two at a time and retrieved his shirt from the back of the chair in the spare room. Jackie was quiet, her mumbling and cursing having died off, so he assumed she’d gone back to sleep. Outside was deathly quiet. There wasn’t even a sign of a breeze. So, when he clicked the key fob to his Porsche, the sound of the locks releasing, although expected, still made him jump. He was tired, the lack of sleep taking its toll on his nerves. As he drove towards the entrance, the gates automatically opened. Deciding to have one last look in the rear-view mirror, he gave a sigh of relief. Apart from the outside lights, the house was in total darkness.
Good, she was still asleep.
His lock-up was in the middle of West Kingsdown in Kent, cleverly hidden in a place called Knatts Valley.
Centuries ago, the area had been divided up into plots of land for smallholdings. Over the years, the residents had turned the dwellings into large houses with stables or workshops, and some even had log cabins for holiday retreats. Through the middle ran a narrow lane, hardly wide enough for two cars, so if any police vehicles travelled along it, the residents, most of whom lived on the wrong side of the law, would be instantly notified. The lane was dark and just up ahead was the turning onto his land. From the front it looked like two large log cabins, and behind was a workshop cleverly disguised as an average-looking garage. Smaller cabins surrounded it, and so for anyone passing through, it would appear as a holiday let. However, it was a carefully secured place of business that only a very select few knew about.
He turned off his headlights and parked behind the first log cabin and slowly crept towards the side door of the workshop. He had a gun in his hand, in case this was a set-up. But then he saw Eric appear and look around. Eric spotted Mike and waved his hand, beckoning him to come in.
From the outside, the lock-up looked small, but once inside, the space seemed to open up. In fact, it was large enough to house twelve cars, a small office, and a kitchenette. The building was lined with steel shutters inside and almost impossible to break into.
There in the middle of the room, under a spotlight, bound and gagged, was Travis, their new recruit. Surrounding him were overwhelmingly daunting men. Willie Ritz – tall, lanky, mean, and hard-faced – Ted Stafford or Staffie for short – who looked as though he was made of plasticine, with a bobbly nose and oversized biceps, and Lou Baker – who looked a little like Johnny Depp – greeted Mike with a nod. Then they looked at Eric to announce the news.
Mike put his gun back inside the belt of his trousers and kept his eyes on Travis. In a firm and controlled voice, he said, ‘So, Eric, what’s all this about?’
Eric was livelier than Mike, but being only ten months apart, they could have passed for twins when they were younger. Mike, the eldest, commanded more respect and his cool demeanour earned it. Whilst this six-foot-seven giant, weighing around twenty-five stone, was an intimidating sight, it was the intensity of his eyes that could strike terror into anyone who was brazen enough to front him out. Eric, though, didn’t have the same presence about him, being slightly shorter and with a body that had once been muscular but had now turned to fat. Even his voice lacked authority, and when he spoke, he did so in a less measured way, often allowing his mouth to run away with him.
History was repeating itself. Like their parents, who had created the Regans’ firm, Mike and his friends were also inseparable. As close as brothers, they worked together, played together, and more importantly trusted each other. Their criminal
