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“Dawson’s no grass.” Jake’s eyes narrowed.
“No. But he’s angry at Terry. Reckons Daley owes him because he kept his mouth shut and did his bird when some geezer from the regional crime squad offered him an early release from Brixton. In exchange for pointing the finger at Terry.”
“That’s all they offered?”
“Well, that and the arresting officer’s head on a plate.”
Jake barked with laughter. “Ha! I bet they bloody did. I knew it, the sneaky slags. So why would Jimmy talk to me and not them?”
“Why?” Yate looked as if the younger man had grown a second head. “Because if he talks to the regional boys, Terry will know it before the end of the hour. Angry or not, Daley scares the shit out of poor little Jimmy.”
“Just about every villain in London is terrified of Terry, and most of the coppers on the manor as well, it’s how the bastard stays on top. Get to the point.”
“Why you? Well, you’re the guy who put him in Brixton in the first place. He spent most of his sentence there in a wheelchair on your account. If you go to him, make him see reason, he’ll probably do whatever you want.”
“And if he declines?”
Harry shrugged. “Wheelchairs are still covered under the NHS.”
Jake laughed again, then reached back into his jacket, pulled out the recorder, and threw it to Yate. With hands clapping like a seal, the fat man just managed to catch the device. “Merry Christmas, Yate. I’ll be in touch.”
On any other night, the Docklands would have been a bustling hive of people and cars. But with less than an hour until Christmas, most of the inhabitants of London were already indoors.
Immune to the chilly December night, Vickey let her feet carry her, not really caring where. She just needed to… to what?
She’d told Erica and Angela she wanted to think. But that wasn’t true. She couldn’t bear to think. Thinking led to memories. And those memories always led her back to him.
It had been so long since the last time. She’d almost forgotten how painful the memories could be. Ten years on, but one wrong thought and I’m right back there again.
Why did it have to happen now, when she was already so messed up from Jake?
No, she couldn’t go there. Couldn’t bear to even think about him.
So, she walked and walked, until she finally came to one of the many redeveloped warehouses that infested the ancient city. But where others had been reborn as luxury flats, shopping complexes, and heritage sites, this single red brick structure remained much as it had done a hundred years ago but for a bright neon sign above the door that said in bold red letters Seven.
Vickey had heard the name before. Erika had mentioned it once or twice. A club?
Suddenly, she knew what she needed to do.
Jake wasn’t a drinker by nature and never touched a drop when he was on the job. He’d seen too many good mates go down bad roads that way. Drink might be a soldier's best friend away from the lines, however it could seriously fuck up a career quicker than a Rupert with a chip on his shoulder if not kept in check.
But he was off the clock, and he seriously needed a drink.
The server behind the bar, an obvious toff with blond hair gelled into what Jake could only describe as a failed bird’s nest, only looked at him when he ordered a Black and Tan. It took three tries before he finally got the cocktail right.
“That’ll be eleven forty-five, sir,” he said with an obviously forced smile as he placed the infusion on the bar.
Jake all but gaped as he fished in his jean’s pocket for his wallet. “Eleven forty-fucking-five? I asked for a drink, not the time. Where did you get the beer, Japan?” Indignant, he put a twenty-pound note on the bar and scooped up the glass. “You could have at least made it a pint.”
The toff ignored the jab and took the note over to the till before bringing him his change. “Can I get you anything else?”
“At twelve quid a beer, not bloody likely.” But the server had already gone to another patron, so Jake just shoved the change back into his pocket and twisted round to face the dancefloor. Leaning back, he sipped the B&T, watching, instinctively looking for something he was utterly terrified of finding.
They'd met in a place just like this. She'd been working as a waitress in the club and he'd been out for a celebratory drink with the rest of the squad. She'd taken their drinks, and he'd engaged with a bit of banter. It had been completely innocent, but then they'd crossed paths in his regular cafe where he went for his tea break when working at HQ. Then again, at the end of the week, when he'd been grabbing a ready-meal, and she'd been on the till. It turned out she worked in a temp agency. It had been the end of her shift and seeing his choice of cuisine, she'd offered to make him dinner if he would walk her home. It might have been more banter, but it hadn't stopped him from offering to drive her.
The age gap wasn't an issue. He'd never asked why she never accepted the frequent offers of permanent employment from her numerous temp jobs. She’d never asked about his job or why he kept 'illegal' firearms in his drawer or had to leave suddenly sometimes, or why he always came back with cuts and bruises that would make Mike Tyson think twice. They'd just clicked.
Goddamnit, get a grip man. She’s gone. She left. You’re done. Get over it-
