The Family Firm

Chapter 52

Freddie was surprised at his own calmness as he slipped on the latex gloves with a satisfying rubbery snap. The past eight or so hours had been a complete blur. At 4.15 the previous evening, he had received an answer-phone message from his postman, stating he had sensitive information for him. As soon as Fred had returned the call and had been informed about the man Mr Jones had seen in the business park, he had sent out an alert to all those he knew for further information. This was at six pm. By ten, he had a name and a reasonable motive. Around midnight, he and Lenny had found Vinny Smith in the cemetery ahead of Niamh's headstone. It was almost poetic. The sheer gall of it was astounding.

That little fact among everything else was why Freddie was impressed by himself as he stood there in the warehouse that sat in the industrial park in Beckton, inspecting the tools he had laid out before him with the quiet intrigue of a child choosing a toy from the shelf. It was almost dead silent; there was only Freddie, Lenny standing like stone with his hands folded simply ahead of himself, and Vinny, unconscious and limp in the chair at the centre of the room. He had woken up in the boot on the ride over and had a large goose's egg above his eye from one of Lenny's notorious right hooks, a satisfying hit that had guaranteed Vinny's silence for the rest of the journey.

Slowly, the drunkard groaned as he returned to consciousness. At first, he took a few moments to place the heavy feeling in his limbs through the throbbing of his head, but soon realised he was fastened to the chair with cable ties on each of his wrists and ankles. It was only upon this realisation that he began to panic, thrashing about and squinting in the bright, yellowed light the exposed bulb hanging above his head emitted.

'You're awake,' stated Fred simply without turning around to look at him. Even through the fog of his injuries and the drunken haze in his head, Vinny could see the tools Fred was inspecting piece by piece, and knew somewhere in the back of his mind that this was to deliberately make him anxious.

'Didn't wanna wake you,' the mobster went on with mock, theatrical enthusiasm. At last, he turned around to face the bound Vinny, holding a pair of secateurs which he gestured with naturally. 'You looked like you was having a good dream.'

Vinny made to speak, but realised far too late that he couldn't—there was something stuffed into his mouth and taped over, preventing him from producing all but weak, muffled groans.

Freddie watched the pitiful sight before him and laughed. He held a false veneer of almost vaudevillian bravado, but behind his eyes there was something very dark. This man was the one responsible for the dark stain on what should have been his nephew's—his son's—happiest day of his life. The same son that was fighting for said life in a hospital bed in Kensington while this piece of scum roamed the streets.

Well, not any more. When Fred was done with him, Vinny Smith would be treated like the cockroach he was; ground into dust and forgotten about.

'For your sake,' Fred went on, striding forward with a sniff. 'I hope you was having a good dream, anyway. Because now, things is gonna become very, very real.'

Vinny choked out a few muffled sobs as the gangster strode around him, lightly tapping the secateurs rhythmically against his own palm. He circled him like a shark, and as he made his second round, he suddenly stopped directly ahead of his captive, the gardening tool resting still against his hand. He was smiling.

'Don't worry,' he said animatedly, his voice a melodic sing-song. 'We're not getting started just yet. Maybe give ya a chance to plead your case, eh Lenny?'

Lenny the Nut, who stood still and motionless nearby, only nodded at his boss' and long-time friend's joke. Vinny turned his head as much as he could to look at the hulking man, in a desperate attempt for him to do something, anything, but Len's dopey expression was cast towards the horizon, as if oblivious to Vinny's presence.