The Life

  There were fewer than twenty people in the church; it was cold, it was dark, and yet Tania felt, as always, that she was a part of something much bigger than the world she inhabited.

  She sensed the authority that this religion commanded in its followers.

  She sat with her nana and looked around the church. She focused on the Stations of the Cross, the statues of Christ and His poor mother, the beautiful crucifix that hung above the altar depicting the last moments of Jesus before He died to save them, and she felt a brief moment of peace at long last.

  Tania and Theresa sat together after the Mass was over, enjoying the silence of the church, and the atmosphere of calm serenity.

  ‘Are you all right, Tania?’

  She nodded. ‘I’m getting there. I just wish we could bury my mum. I think once we can do that it will be a bit easier, you know?’

  ‘It’s hard, I know, lovely. But you’re right, once we lay her to rest, it will bring about a bit of normality. It’s like being in limbo. We need to get back to reality.’

  ‘I miss her so much, Nana. I wish she was still here, I wish I had not taken her for granted, had known we didn’t have long left together. I would have made sure we didn’t waste a second of it.’ She was crying, the tears running down her face.

  Theresa smiled sadly. ‘Listen, child, we all wish that – it’s natural. Death is as much a part of life as living. We will all die, sweetheart, that is the only definite thing we will ever know. It’s hard, especially for the people left behind but, beggar or king, it comes to us all – no one can prevent it. That is why you need to enjoy your life while you can. The death of a loved one just reminds us of our own mortality. It reminds us that one day death will come for us too.’

  Tania knew her nana was right, but it still didn’t make her feel any better; she had far too much on her mind. ‘I hope she’s happy, Nana, wherever she is. I hope she is at rest.’

  Theresa laughed loudly then and Tania could hear the humour in her nana’s voice as she said gaily, ‘’Course she is! We’re Irish Catholics, for feck’s sake! We believe we have the edge over everyone else when it comes to dying! We live to die, and we die leaving others to carry on our names, and we pass those names on for generations, so we can never be forgotten. Why do you think we can’t use contraception? We are conditioned to procreate at every fecking opportunity. Populate the earth with more good Catholics! Children are the greatest gift God could give to anyone, and they are the future. Like you, now. Your mum is gone, but you are a part of her legacy – while you live, she will never really be dead. You have her blood in your veins, and her wisdom in your mind. Your child will be a part of her even though she is gone.’

  Tania had never thought about it like that before, and her nana’s words made her feel better, that in some way her mum was still with her. Then she realised what her nana had just said.

  Theresa took her granddaughter’s hand in hers and, smiling sadly at her, she asked gently, ‘Now, tell me the truth. Are you pregnant, child?’

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty-One

  Christopher Williams had already spent his hundred grand in his head. He was due to retire in the next few years, and it would be a very welcome bonus. He liked and trusted Danny Bailey; he was a chip off the old block – like his father, if he promised something, he delivered. Williams had been happy to go that extra mile for him. He had done his homework, and he had procured everything Danny had requested.

  Another plus was that he had found himself a nice little ally in the forensics department – a dumpy little scientist, with good teeth, nice hair, and a serious coke habit. She was not averse to earning a bit on the side, and he was willing to cultivate her, knowing that she would be very useful to him in the future. Even after he retired, he would keep his hand in. Being the kind of man he was, he had played the long game and, over the years, he had made a point of befriending all the people who would one day be responsible for padding out his pension.

  He was pleased with himself; he knew better than anyone that his collars – his knack of finding and removing from society the scum that preyed on women and children – far outweighed his extra-curricular activities. That was the real bonus of being a detective – the force were always loath to accuse people like him of anything dodgy, no matter how much evidence they might have to the contrary. If they did, and if they won the case, every collar he had ever felt, every fucking ponce he had banged up, would be lining up round the block, screaming for a retrial. A bent copper caused all sorts of aggro for the powers-that-be. No one wanted the expense or the bother of a new trial; it was far easier and cleaner to offer early retirement to any officers who were found lacking. It was simple economics.

  He was very happy as he walked into the pub in Rainham where he’d arranged to meet Danny Bailey. He liked Essex. The females were always well groomed, always smiling. Essex women were born with an instinctive knowledge of how to make the best of their attributes; they were very smart and savvy. Essex men, however, were a different ball game; they all seemed to have been born with a natural belligerence that caused more fights than John Wayne, and a biological need to become villains. Like the Liverpudlians, they were capable of serious skulduggery from a very early age.

  As Danny Bailey ordered their drinks, Williams wondered for a few seconds just how this young man would use the knowledge he was about to give him. But that was not his problem; he had simply performed the task requested of him, and what this man did with the information provided was none of his business.

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Two

  Peter and Daniel Bailey were both very quiet as they drove into the scrapyard.

  Peter hadn’t seen the renovations to the Portakabins and he was very impressed with the new offices; no one would ever imagine that they were as old as the hills. They had been refitted so well the whole fucking place looked brand new – no way would anyone believe that a gruesome murder had occurred there recently.

  ‘Fucking hell, Dan, these look better than the offices at Canary Wharf!’

  Daniel laughed. ‘I told you – he’s good, the kid, and do you know what, Pete? He wouldn’t take a fucking bean off me. He said it was payment for us looking after his old man while he was away. I tell you, I was choked.’

  Peter was relieved; no forensic lab in the world would find anything remotely sinister here. The boy knew his job – the only thing left of the original building was the fucking outer shell, and that was probably just because his brother had insisted it be kept. As far as Daniel was concerned, nothing had really changed – he still wanted his security and who could blame him?

  ‘So, Daniel, what do you think this is about?’

  Daniel shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Peter. My Danny asked to meet us here, just us two. That is all I know.’ He could sense the worry coming off his brother in waves. ‘You all right, Pete?’

  Peter nodded, but he couldn’t fool his brother. He feared what was coming, and he was powerless to prevent it.

  Daniel poured them each a drink and, handing his brother his whisky, he said quietly, ‘You know, Peter, that no matter what happens, I won’t be taking any prisoners.’

  Peter nodded, but he didn’t speak. He couldn’t.

  Danny arrived twenty minutes later and, as he looked at his dad and his uncle, he wished with all his heart that he was not the bearer of such bad news. He had no option – this had to be sorted, no matter what the consequences. But it was still a very hard thing to do.

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Three

  ‘Is it anyone we know, Tania?’

  Ria was as shocked as her mother-in-law at the news. Theresa had insisted on her presence – she had been adamant, in fact. Ria was glad she was here; Lena would have wanted her to look out for her daughter.

  Tania was still not saying a word to anyone about who was responsible for her predicament. Theresa had hoped that Tania might have opened up to her. She had an inkling of who the father was but she wanted proof, s
o she could make her grandson pay for this; she wanted him to be exposed, even though she knew it would cause ructions.

  As they sat in Lena’s kitchen, and looked at Lena’s only daughter, Ria knew she had to help this girl in every way she could, for Lena, as well as for Tania. One thing Ria knew for sure was that whoever was responsible for the girl’s condition had taken advantage of her; the Tania she knew had been greener than the grass of Ireland. To her knowledge, she had never been kissed, let alone anything else. Ria had racked her brains, and she could not think of one lad who had been sniffing round her; in fact, the girl had never even had a boyfriend that she was aware of.

  Ria leaned forward in her chair, and asked gently, ‘Were you forced in any way, Tania? Did someone make you do anything you didn’t want to?’

  Tania just wanted them both to go away and leave her alone. She was pregnant! She had only done it once! If she told the truth, there would be murder done, and her child would never have a chance. It would suffer from the very start. No, this was a secret she would have to take to the grave. She shook her head.

  ‘Look, child, you have to talk to us at some point. We just want to help you. Your dad will want to know, your brothers will want to know – you can’t hide something like this.’

  Tania still didn’t answer.

  Ria sighed in exasperation. ‘Do you want to get rid of it, lovely? No one would ever know, I promise. If that’s what you want, then we can arrange it.’

  Theresa was more shocked than she thought possible; she was completely against abortion, believing that a child was a gift from God Himself. All the same, she would stand back and keep quiet, if that was what this poor girl wanted. If her suspicions were correct, it would not augur well for any of them if the truth should come out. But it was Tania’s choice – whether she wanted to name him or not was her prerogative.

  Tania shook her head once more. ‘I can’t, Auntie Ria. I can’t get rid of it. All that I can say is, I’m sorry.’

  Theresa was glad that her granddaughter was going to keep the child, even though she was sorry for her because life as she knew it was over. Like her, she would be a young mum and, like her, she would be tied to her child for the rest of her life. It was history repeating itself.

  Chapter One Hundred and Forty-Four

  Peter Bailey could see his brother’s face out of the corner of his eye, and he knew he believed everything that Danny was saying.

  Deep inside he believed it too, but he had already lost one son and he was loath to lose another, to believe his first born was capable of such treachery. His Petey was a gambler, and he would never change. He was no fucking better than the people they fleeced on a daily basis, who spent their days dreaming about the big win, the big payout. They could never see that they lost far more money to the bets over time than they could ever recoup. His son had so much already, all of which had been handed to him on a plate. He didn’t need to gamble; he had a fucking good earn – an earn that most people would have got down on their knees and thanked God for. But his son had a sickness; like his Jack, young Petey was a waste of space.

  Peter blamed himself; he had protected his eldest boy, given him chances he wouldn’t have allowed anyone else. That this child of his, who he had trusted, seen as his heir, could be capable of such hate was beyond him. His boy had been there the night of the bombing, he had been celebrating in the club with them. And all the time he had been waiting for his father to go out to his car and die.

  It was one of the few times in his life that Peter Bailey wanted to cry. Treachery was always worse when it concerned a blood relative; it was hard for a parent to admit they had bred someone so heinous and disloyal.

  Danny was heart-sorry for his uncle, but he was adamant that the truth had to be revealed no matter how much it might hurt. It would be far more fucking dangerous if he kept his trap shut – that was the bottom line. There was far too much at stake here, and not just money-wise.

  ‘I can’t believe this, Daniel, it’s too much.’ Peter looked at his brother, hoping that he would come to his aid, tell him that it was a mistake and his son loved him, and could never hurt him. He tried another tack; clutching at straws now. ‘I saw all the police reports, and so did your father, didn’t you, Daniel? They said nothing about any of this.’ Peter Bailey could hear the desperation in his own voice; he knew that he had to face this head on, but it was so much harder than he would ever have believed.

  Danny wished with all his heart that he didn’t have to be the bearer of such awful news. But, unlike these two, he had been suspicious of his cousin for a long while now, ever since he’d drugged him. He looked his uncle in the eye, and said honestly, ‘All Petey gave you, Uncle Pete, was what he wanted you to see. He edited everything he had gathered from the Old Bill – he had to. He has been cultivating a lot of Filth over the last couple of years and, from what I can surmise, they worked for him – not us. Not the Baileys, as a family. He was just looking to cover his own arse. He must have been at fucking panic stations when he realised that you were still . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence; he knew how hard this was. ‘This lot cost me a hundred grand, and that was my own money I used. I was willing to lose all that if I was proved wrong, and I wanted to be wrong – I never wanted this. But it’s the truth. Your Petey was behind the bomb that killed my mum. The bomb that was meant for you. There’s no easy way to say that, no fucking way to sugar coat it, is there? It’s a fact. And more than that, a fucking disgrace, a fucking diabolical liberty.’

  Daniel Bailey was looking at his brother with fury. The enormity of what he was hearing was just sinking in. That he had been harbouring the fucking piece of dirt, the man who had planted a fucking bomb that had taken his Lena away from him, was unbelievable. He had loved that fucker like a son. He knew as well as his brother that his Danny would not dare to accuse anyone of this – let alone a close family member – without absolute proof.

  Daniel looked around him at his new offices, all matt paint and designer fabrics, and he yearned for the old days when this had been no more than a common-or-garden scrapyard, and the kids had been far too young to hurt anyone. Peter Bailey had inadvertently produced their own nemesis; he had loved and nurtured that cunt, and for what? Daniel was his godfather; he had stood in the church and pledged to God to look after him if needs be. He had been given everything, yet Petey had grown up to be nothing more than a fucking traitor, a man who would plan his own father’s demise. He had somehow been born with all the weaknesses that they, as brothers, loathed and manipulated to earn their coin. Petey was a gambler, a womaniser, a traitor, a user of everyone around him. Peter had been harbouring a viper, a liar, and a fucking thief.

  It was ironic really, considering how hard his brother had come down on Daniel in the past. Peter never felt the urge to hold back when pointing out that he had caused a major fuck-up. But, whatever Daniel might have done, he had never once been disloyal to his own. Peter had always held himself up as a beacon of fucking respectability, yet he had bred a fucking junkie as well as a fucking traitorous cunt to boot; two of his sons had been slayers of women, had been men without any kind of moral fibre. That his brother could have bred children who were capable of such crimes was beyond Daniel’s belief. The fact that his brother believed it so readily told him that Peter had obviously had his own suspicions for a good while. Daniel knew that, deep down, his brother had to have had at least an inkling about his eldest son.

  He said as much, furious that his wife’s death was being laid at the family’s door. ‘You must have fucking had some idea about young Petey. I know you, there ain’t much that escapes your fucking notice.’

  Danny understood where his dad was coming from. He lit a cigarette, before saying quietly, ‘I requested the forensic reports over and over again from Petey, but he never gave us anything worth having. He was always treated like the heir to the throne, and I swallowed that – we all did – but I knew from the get-go that we should have been privy to any inf
ormation pertaining to my mum’s death. Uncle Pete, you know as well as I do that you didn’t pursue the culprit as forcefully as you should have. You were frightened of what you were going to find out, weren’t you? Well, your son was in league with the Allens. He left a fingerprint in the squat when he took Terrence out. He paid a lot of money for that to go away – he knew the Filth that we didn’t own would have been all over that like a rash. Because for every Filth that we have made a point of cultivating, there’s always two more we can’t get to.’

  Peter Bailey felt, for the first time in years, real fear, real panic. The knowledge that his son was capable of planning his own father’s death was something he could not get his head around. Petey had been willing to take his own father out so callously, so violently, and had mourned his auntie’s death, all the while knowing that he had been responsible for it. It was too much to take in. It was the sheer effrontery of it that was the hardest to comprehend.

  He looked at Daniel, and saw hate mingled with pity. He was grateful to him for that; knowing his brother still had the capacity to feel his pain was a small measure of how much he really did care for him.

  ‘Does Liam know anything about this?’

  Danny shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. What I do know, though, is that he has been cleaning up his brother’s messes for a long time now. Petey owes money everywhere; he has been skimming the takes since day one. But that is just him, ain’t it? We accepted his so-called foibles, his inability to see the big picture, his need to find that extra con, earn what he felt was his private wage. He always needed to feel he was getting more than the rest of us lads. The sad thing is there would never be enough in the pot for him. He is a fucking shyster, a common fucking thief.’