Serious People (12 page)

Khan looked hurt by Early’s comment. “I’m not looking to make my name with anything. I’m looking into Charlie O’Neil because
his name
, it seems, is never far from any serious crime in London. And no matter how good he is, he can’t hide everything.”

“You won’t be the first to try Guv,” Early said, walking towards the door.

“Make sure you’re in early tomorrow Detective Sergeant. We’ll start by paying Robert Payne a visit,” Khan said decisively.

DS Early briefly paused, and suppressed a sigh.

“Why you want to do that Guv? You go knocking on his door without any due cause; we’ll have his briefs crawling all over us.”

“I’d like to get a quote on moving a few things from America. I imagine they offer a highly secure service.”

Early’s heart sank. Try as he might to focus on the sunny shores of Portugal, all he could see now was endless shit in London. He had just started to feel all right about working for the young bird; it had been a while since anyone in this office had cared about any of his wisdom and experience, let alone want to draw on it. But the thought of going to knock on Robert Payne’s front door—no —that was not good. He had no intention of letting this little do-gooder spoil the nice calm days ahead of him that he had planned.

John Blake hurried into the Italian restaurant with a variety of concerns. First, he hoped that something would have held Emma’s parents up and he might still have arrived there before they did. Second, he hoped Emma’s father wouldn’t notice he was wearing the same suit as the had the first time they met.

He was wearing his only suit, a mid-ranged price high street edition. But it represented the highest price John had ever paid for any piece of clothing, and he was certainly going to try and get value for money from it. After his brothers had dropped him back at Emma’s, he had quickly put on a pale blue shirt and sharp green tie, hoping the bold combination would take Emma’s father eyes away from the over-used jacket.

He smiled when he saw his Uncle Roy, leaning against the bar by the counter of the
maître d
; his uncle was also wearing his one and only suit. It was once a strong charcoal colour but now was more of a dull grey and displayed a fair degree of shabbiness. John couldn’t care less about this—he’d never seen the old man dressed so smartly. It served to portray the importance with which Uncle Roy regarded this meal.

Emma had organised the gathering as a form of celebration between her and John’s family to mark the event that they were moving in together. John had not liked the formality of the arrangement but knew it wasn’t worth the battle. Emma was determined.

The main reason he didn’t like Emma’s idea was that it involved him bringing some of his family with him; and despite Emma sharing his concerns about John’s Aunt and Uncle being around the same table as her parents, she knew this was this sort of formality her parents expected.

Uncle Roy looked at his watch and then back to John again. “You’re cutting it fine boy aren’t you?”

“Better late than never; where’s Auntie Mary?” John asked, trying to hide any optimism he felt that she might not be there.

“Aye, sadly that will be more on the never side. You know how she is with social events such as this,” Roy said apologetically. “I tried to…”

“Don’t worry, Unc. Thank you for being here,” John said giving his uncle a pat around the arm.

John felt a warm glow fill his chest. Sure, Roy was a working class guy, and not the middle class chap Emma’s dad would have preferred to see at the other end of the table. But he was a decent man—a man John could depend on not to let him down.

“Come on, let’s go and see that pretty filly of yours,” Roy said walking towards the dining area.

John let his uncle lead him into the dining area and prepared for an evening of challenges. Emma’s father was a bank manager, an educated man who liked the conversation to be about current affairs or the latest economic blight businesses faced. John always felt he had to be on top of his game, just to keep up with him—he had a ritual that involved close study of the broad sheets before any social occasion with Emma’s father. Beads of sweat went down his back when he saw Emma wave and her father stand up and signal them over to a table in the corner of the restaurant, where they were sat. This time, he’d had no opportunity to even browse a paper and he had not even watched the evening news for about a week. The only thing on his mind currently was how his brothers had just murdered a local gangster, and this was both a definite no for table conversation and a subject that John was trying to forget.

Emma’s mother wasn’t there; hopefully this wasn’t some form of feedback on Emma’s latest life choice.

Before sitting down, the formal introductions were done between Roy and Emma’s father. John had greeted Emma’s father as Mr. Fuller; but as always he insisted on just being called Keith.

John could see Keith weighing his uncle up and cringed inside, as he knew the assessment wouldn’t be favourable. But, to his credit, Keith did not let this show. He treated Roy with the utmost respect and pleasantries.

Keith told how his wife Cynthia had a terrible cold that evening so wasn’t able to make it. She had been desperate to come. John couldn’t help but think this was some kind of snub, but at the same time was relieved not to have to spend an evening with a woman he regarded as a stuck-up cow. He smiled when he saw a similar relief cross Emma’s face as Roy presented Mary’s apologies.

The restaurant was Emma’s family’s favourite; apparently they had always come there to mark different important events over the years: Emma getting into university, Keith’s promotions, birthdays and so on.

John didn’t care much for the place. He thought the pasta was mediocre at best. He was fairly sure that he could have ordered anything off the menu and it would have had a similar taste. “Posh cunts don’t know how to live proper,” he heard Billy’s voice in his head saying. “They never have anything big to celebrate so they have to choose these boring restaurants to celebrate their boring achievements; no fucking drive, none of them!”

“Black pepper sir?” The waiter stood offering him the large pepper grinder.

“No thanks.”

“So Emma tells me you have been in the hospitality industry for years Roy,” Keith said, delicately loading his fork with the mundane pasta.

“Yes well, we’ve been running our family bar for many years now,” Roy said, reaching for a large glass of red wine, “more years than I care to remember, to be honest mate.”

John moved uncomfortably in his seat, at Roy calling Keith mate. He couldn’t help but wonder how many times Keith got referred to as “mate”? Not many.

“It must be splendid; I love it around the Hammersmith, Chiswick area. What’s the name of the place; you never know I might have popped in there over the years?" Keith asked.

“Blake’s Bar,” Roy replied.

Keith stopped eating for a moment to think. “Blake’s Bar. I don’t think I’ve ever…”

John didn’t want Emma’s family to have anything to do with the bar. He wasn’t ashamed of it, particularly; but he certainly didn’t want the conversation to lead to that it was once used as a brothel where his late Ma plied her services. It was shortly after she had been murdered by a client, that they’d converted it into a bar. He was also fairly sure that Keith hadn’t ever drunk there, and was equally sure that Keith would not really love the particular part of Hammersmith where Blake’s was situated.

“How was your day today Emma?” John asked, hoping that Keith wouldn’t find it rude for him to but in.

“You know, just a normal day. Oh, I spoke to your new branch though,” Emma stopped quickly.

“My new branch?” John asked confused.

“Oh God! Sorry John, it was meant to be a surprise,” Emma said turning to her father.

Keith put this hand on his daughter's arm. “Its ok Emma.” He turned to John. “I was going to raise this after dinner but… I’ve got you a trainee manager’s role at a one of our branches in Slough.”

Emma’s face lit up. “Isn’t it fantastic John!”

John’s mind raced for a moment, his head giddy.

“But how?” he stammered. “I’ve got no real qualifications or anything?”

“I did have to call in some favours, but you’re a good lad, John, with a clever mind and that counts for a lot,” Keith turned and smiled at this daughter. “And I now have a vested interest in your future.”

All John could think of was Robert Payne’s lifeless body, sat still strapped to a chair in his lounge, and how screwed he and his brothers were.

“But Slough’s quite a long way to commute,” John started, still shocked by the offer.

“Don’t be silly John—it’s about twenty minutes away,” Emma said, still beaming. “There’s the train or a bus—whichever way you want to go.”

“You start on Monday,” Keith said. His words now sounded more like a command. “Maybe we’ll all pop into town together at the weekend and pick you up a few more suits; first impressions count.”

John felt a flush of embarrassment and couldn’t help but look down at his suit. Keith had noticed the suit; of course he’d noticed. He probably had been surveying him was a special ‘dad scanner’ every moment that there’d ever been in each other’s company.

“That…” Roy said, holding his pint aloft. “Is fucking amazing!”

“I don’t know if I can do Monday. I mean there’s stuff still going on at the bar.” John said turning to his uncle.

“He’ll be there on Monday, Keith. This boy here; has always had too much loyalty for his own good. You are making the right investment here mate!” Roy said, giving John a look that said he was not to bother arguing.

Of course, half of John’s mind knew that this was the most amazing opportunity he could ever hope for. But the other half—the half that was still in the greater control—went back to the day's earlier events. He somehow had to help put his brothers’ lives back on track; and until he did that he couldn’t move on.

This was such an amazing unexpected offer though. Emma had said that her father was getting him a job at the bank; but he never would have dreamt that it would involve a step into management.

“Thank you Keith, it is an amazing offer,” John said. Looking back at his prospective father-in-law he could feel his eyes starting to well.

Emma rushed from her seat and gave him a kiss. “Well done Mr. Manager!”

The rest of the evening seemed to go remarkably well. Roy and Keith centred discussion on their shared love of football and traded stories about their younger lives on the terraces of Fulham and Crystal Palace.

At the end of the dinner, Emma walked with her father back to his car, leaving John and his uncle to say their goodbyes in front of the restaurant. John gave the old man a hug. “Thanks for coming, Uncle Roy.”

“Listen boy, that was a bloody pleasure. They’re lovely people, John… and that new job you got yourself…” The old man looked lost for words for a moment. “It’s unbelievable… My little nephew on course to be a bloody bank manager!”

“Yeah. But Uncle Roy, Monday is too soon. I mean, I can’t just walk out on my brothers,” John said.

His uncle’s stare turned cold. “That’s exactly what you’ve got to do boy.”

“Now is such bad timing, I just can’t say why; but you wouldn’t believe…”

“There will never be a good time to leave those good for nothings behind. But I’ll tell you something. If you don’t, that little lady won’t be hanging around, let alone that bloody job!”

As John sat in the passenger seat of Emma’s car, driving back to his new home, he couldn’t get his uncle’s face out of his head, and the last words the old man had spoken to him before walking back towards Hammersmith. Of course, Emma had offered him a lift; but he refused to use up what he called the young couple’s petrol money. John loved his Uncle Roy and wished what his uncle told him were as simple as the words he used.

Suddenly, all he could remember was that night—the night from his childhood, which would forever live in his nightmares—the night that was always the first thought he had whenever he looked at his brothers.

John had been driven back from football practice by his best friend's mum. He hadn’t even noticed that she’d parked further up the street than usual, let alone that the obvious reason for this was that the police had cordoned off the end of the street they lived on.

He vividly remembered walking down the street with Mrs. Blakeley and then being approached by that policeman. Looking back it was clear the copper must have thought it was just a mother and son trying to walk down the street. This could be the only reason for the kind of language he used.

“You don’t want to go down there Mrs," the copper said, pointing down the end of the road that was cornered off by police tape. “Some old whore’s just been slashed up good and proper.”

He couldn’t remember for sure if the copper was smiling when he was saying this; but in his recurring nightmares he'd always had a wicked grin on his face.

In later years, John had learnt the full gruesome story. His Ma had been conducting some fetish based sex act with the would-be killer, when the then five-year-old Billy and three-year old Nick had walked in.

They'd only come into the room because they'd heard awful noises coming from inside; even in relation to the usual types of sounds they’d grown up having to endure, these were horrid and terrible. Their Ma and this man had both been screaming with pain, whilst carrying out some lurid act.

John had always wondered how the boys could have been allowed to walk in. Had she forgotten to shut the doors? Or did she not care less? John could never claim to have known his Ma well enough to know—for sure. He hoped it was the former.

But as soon as his brothers had entered the room, the client had gone mad. He rushed downstairs and grabbed a carving knife.

John had only learnt the actual details whilst in his early twenties. He had gotten hold of the notes from the court case; it was during a phase he went through where he was desperate to know the detail of what happened. He’d convinced himself at the time, if he knew the detail fully then he could move on. If he knew what happened to his poor old Ma, he could start to make sense of it. But after he found out exactly what had happened, he wished he had never known.

The notes had detailed how the killer's defence lawyer had claimed that his client had felt “a mentally destabilising shame at children seeing him carry out a depraved sexual act”. This had “driven him into a psychotic frenzy.”

Billy and Nick had watched as every wound was inflicted by the crazed man on their Ma—all forty-eight stab wounds. The sketchy testimonies, that some social worker or WPC had got out of them, was the only version of events the coppers and sub-sequential court case was built on.