The Family Firm

Chapter 26

Jack Collins had a laugh like a mule, a great braying noise that filled the room and made everyone around him join in with him. It was a boisterous and contagious laugh, which went along with his downright infectious smile. Jack was a jolly man, with flush-red cheeks and a big round belly which shook like gelatine with each wild fit of chuckles he fell into. All of these parts of him painted the picture of an easy-going, friendly man, and he was to a degree, but like every man in his profession a happy demeanour always belied the incredibly violent nature lying beneath it.

He had been running things in South London since the late 70s along with his wife Charity and daughter Stella. He and Charity had been sweethearts in school and had never known another love in all their lives, and because of it her death had completely shattered him. She'd had a weak heart, something the doctors had warned her about when she'd become pregnant with Stella. It was during the birth of their second daughter that she'd gone into cardiac arrest; the strain had been too much on her body. She and the baby were both buried in Nunhead under a thicket of blooming laurels, both in white; her in her wedding dress, the baby in a lace-covered christening garment.

Ever since, he'd been close to Stella as a man could be with his only child. They were thick a thieves, got on like a house on fire and it suited them both. Stella didn't have any of the gentleness of her mother; she was calculating and downright ruthless at times. She thought like a man, which made her quite valuable to him, as far as business went. She held her position in the firm quite well without anyone to lean on—and he knew that as a woman and as Jack's child, she would need to do even better than her male counterparts to prove that she could hold her own. It was a struggle she had willingly taken and had exceeded her father's expectations with flying colours, and he was more proud of her than he could ever express with words.

That night, Stella had neglected to join her father in the club. Jack had come to Freddie Evans' place in Barking called Pussycat's. It was the man's biggest club and it was really booming those days. Jack didn't see this as a threat however, especially as he and Fred had a very good working relationship.

It had been a long time before he'd felt this comfortable in East End. Archy Jackson had been a real cunt in his opinion. He spent most of his time slagging off everyone else in London and made plenty of enemies. It came to no one's surprise that one of his own men had topped him. He was as barbaric as the blacks, there was no method or planning behind anything he did, just brute force and intimidation. He preferred scaring people into submission rather than forming valuable friendships, which just didn't sit right with Jack.

In any case, it was a good thing the old fuck was dead. Everyone would agree. In fact the first thing Jack did when he heard about the news was send a gift basket to Fred's place with a bottle of expensive single-malt scotch whisky and invited him over for tea.

In the coming years, Fred hadn't disappointed, either. He had been the brains of the operation for a long time and knew how things worked. Generally, the consensus was that Fred was a decent bloke, and most people liked him. He came on a bit strong at times and could be extremely violent when called for, but that was just part of the lifestyle they had all signed onto, and by a villain like Jack Collins' standards, Freddie was top notch.

They were all sitting at one of the large plush booths in the VIP area of the club, which was roped off and guarded by two broad lackeys in smart suits. They'd all been laughing at one of Jack's jokes, of which he had many and at which he laughed the loudest of all, just as Lenny the Nut strode past the ropes to join them. He was wearing a leather jacket and a tweed cheese-cutter hat that covered his greasy black hair.

'Fred,' he said. 'There's summink you need to see.'

Fred glanced over at the Nut and extinguished his cigarette in the heavy glass ash tray at the centre of the table. Lenny had worked closely with Fred through much of their careers, they were partners, brothers really, and Fred treasured him greatly. Currently, he was his right-hand man, his man on the ground as he liked to say, because it was Lenny who handled most of the daily jobs.