The Family Firm

Chapter 36

The pub was almost completely empty, save for what was considered the dregs of humanity. Those without families or homes or who simply preferred the drink to their own children were the only people who really sat in the pub on Christmas Day, drinking away the afternoon without purpose. Most places were closed, anyway, except for those like the Braying Mule, which done up with tinsel and festive decorations looked the part of any English pub but was run by the Pakis, who of course didn't celebrate the holiday.

That was where Fred found himself as well that afternoon, a generous glass of brandy in hand and DI Wallace at his side. Both men wanted to spend the day apart from their families for very different reasons; the police officer because his daughter Kelly had died on Boxing Day, and so he let his wife Sandra spend time with her parents while he preferred to mourn alone, and Freddie because of the return of his brother-in-law, Donny.

They had come from very different walks of life, Fred and Wallace, but they were alike in more ways than they realised. They would resort to ruthless means in the name of justice, and they would do anything for their families. These were similarities that had started their arrangement years ago, and were the reasons why they continued to work closely together. They were a necessity to one another, in their own way. Fred was a criminal with morals, in Wallace's opinion, and to Fred, the DI was one of the only paid filth worth working with.

Fred dug out a pack of Lambert & Butler and slipped two silvers from it, one of which he offered to Wallace before slipping the other between his crooked teeth. After lighting it, he continued with the story he had been telling the other man for some time, his voice muffled around the filter: 'Me sister's been off her nut. I mean, you know what this time of year does to a person, but things have been really rankling her. It's because of her son, me nephew. Engaged and all, since last night. We all go a bit mad for our kids, though, don't we. When we're afraid of loosing 'em.'

He knew Wallace understood better than most, and as the DI's mind fell to his deceased daughter Kelly, Fred's own went to that night almost ten years prior, when he'd made the decision to become a permanent fixture in his own daughter's life. He could never have her with Sara in the picture, and with her ringing his own sister to threaten her? That didn't sit well with him. And so, he made sure Junior took care of Katie while he himself took care of Sara.

She was in the bath when he found her, which made things easier. He believed she knew right then what he was going to do to her, because after only a few words of protest, she'd hardly struggled when he had slashed her wrists with the blade. He remembered vividly as her blood tainted the water, and how her pale face watched him while she slowly died right in front of him. 'She'll never forgive you' was what she had said, over and over again like a mantra until she fell into a sleep she would never wake up from. The words permeated his brain, infected him like a disease. Haunted him.

But he couldn't say he had any remorse over it. Sara might have been his wife, but Katie...Katie was his flesh and blood. She was worth it. He would give the world to that little girl. Her mum had simply gotten in the way of that.

The DI was the only one who knew the situation proper. He understood, and he had vouched for Fred. It always served him well in the end to have paid filth. They were the worst kind of copper but a necessity all the same. And frankly, Fred didn't mind the old Bobby Boy, as he called him. He was a decent man, understood how the criminal world worked. He wouldn't trust him as far as he could throw him, because he was a filth after all, but he respected him as a man.

The two sat and smoked and listened to the typical chatter of the pub for some time. The Detective Inspector was deep in thought, neglecting his pint. It was his first drop of liquor in years, but he figured it was Christmas, the least he could do was treat himself. Liquor never numbed the emotional wounds but it did loosen him up enough not to be so bloody hard on himself over it.

He especially needed a drink now. That bastard Brandon Duffy was getting out of prison in a couple of weeks, after all. Served all of twelve years for the murder of his Kelly, and in only a fortnight he would be on the streets again, completely free to abuse and throttle more women as he pleased. The thought made Wallace sick to his stomach.

Forcing himself back into the real world, he addressed the gangster beside him. 'She'll come around, your sister. From what I know of her, she's a strong old mare, inn't she.'

Fred smiled proudly then, pulling himself from the reverie to think admirably on the woman in question. 'She's one in a million, our Franks.'

The front door swung open with the accompaniment of the over-head bell chime, and in strode Stella Collins, all chestnut-brown hair and stark red lipstick. Every eye in the pub was on her as she traversed the sticky, fag-burnt carpet, carefully manoeuvring her Louboutins around various stains of God-knows-what.

She walked directly towards Freddie, whose eyes hadn't left hers from the moment their gazes met.

'Evans.'

'Collins,' he responded coolly, his head rolling back slightly so he could admire the shapely woman standing before him. Stella was probably the sexiest woman he knew, and he meant that very honestly. She had narrow hips, a small, firm arse, and generous breasts. And he, like every other man in the establishment, was looking.

'What can I do you for?'

Her brows raised slightly, but Freddie wasn't sure if she was amused at the joke or pretending to be. 'Just thought I'd come by and wish you a merry Christmas.'

'Merry Christmas to you,' Fred responded, taking a deep drag on his cigarette and speaking over the smoke as he went on. Of course she wasn't just "in the neighbourhood". They never were, were they. 'Thought you'd be too busy celebrating the holiday to be out and about.'

Stella gave a very rare, amused smile. 'Well, Evans, I can roast chestnuts over an open fire any time of the year.' Freddie laughed, and she reached forward to pluck his cigarette out from between his fingers. Knocking the ash off onto the floor, she added, 'Let's talk shop.'

The mobster watched her lips wrap around the fag-end as she inhaled deeply, leaving lipstick stains on the filter when she handed it back to him. The smoke she blew out through her nostrils slowly curled up towards the ceiling like dragon's breath. It was enchanting, like everything else she did.

Wallace was watching too, entranced, as Freddie responded to the curvaceous woman standing ahead of them, 'Yeah, let's. Your place?'

'Seven on the dot.'

With a lasting look towards Fred and a coy glance in the Scot's direction, Stella turned around and slunk back out the front door, her hips swaying sensually with each step. It wasn't until she left and the chatter of the pub slowly returned that Freddie realised everyone had stopped to pay attention to her. She was just that sort of woman.

The DI looked well impressed. 'Girlfriend of yours?'

Freddie quickly shook his head, though his eyes were focused intensely in the last place she'd been. 'Nah. She hates me.'

Wallace laughed loudly over his cigarette and leant back in his seat. 'Could have fooled me, mate.'

They both were laughing then. Stella left everyone she spoke to in a good mood even if they were fighting with her. A slap in the face by a woman like her felt as euphoric as a kiss. But there was something not quite right with it all, thought Freddie. Normally she couldn't be arsed to even pretend to be interested in what he had to say, which meant she must have needed something from him.

As was the nature of women.