Cutter's Firm Read online

  I ring the police – not the emergency number, I’ve got the number for the station in town in my phone, I ring them so often for work. When the call’s picked up a familiar voice offers to help.

  ‘Frank?’ I say. ‘It’s Millie Redman.’ I’m trying to stay calm and not cry.

  ‘Hello, love, you after the local scandal, then?’ he asks, knowing that’s why I usually ring.

  ‘Not this time. I’ve been burgled.’

  ‘Oh, Millie, that’s awful!’

  ‘I just got back from spending Christmas with my parents and the house is a mess. They’ve been through every room, there’s stuff everywhere …’

  ‘What’s the address?’ he asks, and I tell him. ‘You sit tight, we’ll be there in no time. Don’t you worry, we’ll get to the bottom of this.’

  ‘Thanks, I really appreciate it,’ I say and I hang up. I don’t know why exactly, but before anyone gets here I take the Cutter file back out to my car and lock it in the boot.

  22: Cutter

  Christmas was canny and the bairns loved every second, which is what counts. They got spoilt rotten as well. I had to put up with her stupid family, but she did all the work and kept my glass topped up all day, so it could have been worse.

  On Boxing Day I threw a little party at the safe house for the firm and the close staff, like Nat. She spent her time in the kitchen with Aimee and left the rest of us to it, which was probably a wise move. She’s a good worker, but I’m still not sure about having a lass on the team. She’s neither in nor out at the moment; doesn’t know about the whole business, does know about the legit stuff, in detail. I’ll keep her for now, I reckon; I can make a decision as to whether to bring her in properly or sideline her when the new house has been finished.

  The way I’ve got the business set up at the moment, Charlie and Dek are based at the car showroom, Wayne and Tommy look after the gym and the arcade, and Liam and I run Gold. In reality, it’s never quite that clear cut, we move around a lot and all get together at the safe house when we need to have a meeting, but that’s it in broad strokes.

  I’ll have to have a shake up when the new business is up and running; Wayne’s nephew, Kevin, is coming on a treat and Dave, the trainer at the gym, is ready for more responsibility, so there’s plenty of scope.

  One thing I always do is make sure I know what people are up to. They know I record everything that goes on with the chickens – it’s an insurance policy as much as anything – but what they might not know is that I have eyes and ears on them at the various businesses as well. I install the cameras and bugs myself; sometimes you just have to take care of your own business.

  I’m spending my afternoon at the club, catching up on stuff, going through the footage. I fast-forward through most of it, it’s just day-to-day stuff, but then I catch sight of what looks to be a very animated discussion between Wayne and Tommy. I whizz it back, put earbuds in and play it at normal speed.

  They’re in the office at the gym and Wayne is pacing backwards and forwards while Tommy’s playing on the Xbox. Wayne’s speaking when I start listening in.

  ‘I’ve had enough, Tommy, I’m sick of it. Did you see the way the fucker treated me the other day?’

  ‘Calm down, it’s not worth getting upset about.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if it was you getting the fucking bum’s rush all the time.’

  ‘He did worse to Doc.’

  ‘Doc’s not happy, either.’

  ‘Doc screwed up.’

  ‘We started this firm together, the three of us. You and me were in from the start, we were practically equals. It was us saw off the lot from Middlesbrough when they tried moving in on Mac’s firm’s territory after he died. Now it’s him and Big Liam running the show and we’re nowhere.’

  ‘You know it all changed with the takeover.’

  ‘And why was that? Because the cunt went behind our backs and cut a deal with Liam Bradley!’

  ‘Leave it, mate. Be honest, Gordon was always the leader. He’s the one with the drive and the plan.’

  ‘I was talking to Gus about it when he took the kids off us the other day. Word is we’re getting soft.’

  Tommy puts the controller down and turns to him. ‘The firm?’

  ‘No, you and me. We’re getting laughed at. We’re a fucking joke.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true, mate. We always get treated with respect when we meet people.’

  ‘Aye, and as soon as we turn round they’re laughing at us. And it’s all that cunt Cutter’s fault.’

  ‘Watch what you say.’

  ‘Why? Are you going to tell him I called him a cunt?’

  ‘Of course not! But do you think he’s not listening? Do you think he doesn’t know what we say?’

  ‘Fuck him!’ says Wayne, ‘and fuck Big fucking Liam fucking Bradley an’ all, the fucking cunt. They’re a pair of bastards.’

  ‘No, Wayne, you’re not thinking straight. We have a good life, don’t we? Cars and houses and money? How’s that a bad deal?’

  ‘They’ve got more.’

  I clock his face when he says that and it’s twisted and angry. And he’s been talking to Gus in Hartlepool about things in our firm? That’s disloyal. Rule of the firm; always present a united front. We don’t wash our dirty linen in public.

  There’s a bit more, but it’s just Tommy talking sense and that ungrateful little twat running his mouth. I’ve seen and heard enough; there’s going to be a reckoning with Wayne Dobbs, and it’s going to happen soon. Sounds like I need to keep an eye on Doc, which I knew anyway, and I’ll have to have a word with Tommy about that girl of his as well. He’s going to have to dump her, if he hasn’t already. She’s a liability.

  23: Jack

  I want to see Cutter. After what I’ve learned about Livvy, I just want to set eyes on the man. If what I’ve been told is true, Livvy might have pulled the trigger but it was that bastard who put the gun in her hand and to her head.

  I wrap up well in dark clothing, hood up and gloves on, and I go and stand in an alleyway opposite his nightclub. There’s a queue of people waiting to get in and about half of them get turned away. The thought that anyone on the planet isn’t good enough to be in his club is a joke; everyone is better than him, absolutely everyone. He’s scum.

  Sure enough, around midnight a big fancy car pulls up and Cutter and two other men get out. He stands and looks at his nightclub and I can see his chest swell with pride at the thought it’s his. He’s hardly changed in the three years since I saw him last. He seems larger than life somehow, huge and powerful, but I realise that’s just my imagination; he’s not supernatural or a supervillain, he’s just evil. I think of what he did to our Livvy, what he drove her to, and how he just threw her away afterwards. I’ll find out where she is, though; I’ll see she gets a decent burial.

  I turn my attention to the other two men. One of them I don’t recognise, but then my blood turns to ice in my veins; the third man is Wayne Dobbs. The man who—

  I can’t even think about it. Cutter might have given me the scars people can see, but Wayne Dobbs scarred me for life in ways that don’t show. And one day I will kill him for it. I will spill his fucking blood and if I get put away for life, it’ll still be worth it. I realise I’ve stopped breathing and I force myself to take a breath. As I gasp in air, Dobbs looks over towards the alley where I’m standing and I wonder if he can feel my eyes on him, sense the burning hatred I feel for him.

  The rage is burning inside me and I need to get it under control. Mr Elliott, my mentor in the YOI, told me I had to learn how to manage it. ‘Learn your triggers,’ he told me, ‘work things out. Control it or it will control you.’

  I know he was right. I want to scream and run at Dobbs, pummel him until he falls, then kick the crap out of him until his face is pulped and his kidneys reduced to a bloody red mush, but that’s a bad idea. I have to get the anger under control, bide my time, make a plan.

  As Dobbs turn
s away and the three of them strut into the club I start doing the breathing exercise Mr Elliott taught me; slow, deep breaths, in through the nose, out through the mouth. As I do it I feel the tension leaving my body and I’m in control again. All I have to do now is work out how to tell Mam and Dad about Livvy.

  24: Millie

  After the police and the joiner leave, the first person I ring is Tommy. He’s good as gold, promises to come straight over. While I’m waiting for him I start to worry about leaving the file in the car. Somebody’s burgled my house, it’s not unreasonable to think they might target my car next, and I’d hate to lose that information. I get the file and take it up to the spare bedroom. There’s a seat built into an alcove; the top lifts off and I store the spare bedding in there. I lift that out and then push down on one side of the bottom of the storage space; the base tips up and I lift it free. I put the file into the space, replace the base and pile the bedding back on top.

  When Tommy arrives, he hugs me and asks if I’m okay.

  ‘I suppose so,’ I say. ‘Now that the shock’s worn off, I’m angry more than anything.’

  He looks round and says, ‘They’ve certainly done a job on this place, whoever they were.’ He looks at my bags, still in the hall. ‘You can’t stay here. Get what you need and come to mine for the night. We’ll get a takeaway and put our feet up, then we can see what’s to be done here tomorrow. Deal?’

  I nod. ‘Deal.’ I pick up my bag. ‘Just give me five minutes and I’ll sort my stuff out.’ I run upstairs, open the bag and dump my washing in the basket, then grab some clean clothes for the morning. While I’m busy I hear Tommy speaking on the phone, saying, ‘Not tonight, Wayne, sorry,’ and then five minutes later I’m in his car, being driven to his place. So much for finishing things with him!

  ***

  Next day we get the place straightened up so I can see what’s missing before I ring the insurance company. I explain to them what’s happened and tell them the three-piece suite and a chair in the bedroom need replacing, along with a couple of lamps and some china.

  ‘Right,’ says the girl, ‘I’ll get someone out to assess the damage. It won’t take long. Now, what did they steal?’

  ‘As far as I can tell, nothing,’ I tell her.

  ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘I haven’t missed anything yet. There was a small amount of cash in the house, plus some jewellery, electrical equipment, DVDs … as far as I can see, it’s all still there.’

  ‘You were lucky, then,’ she says, and I have to bite my tongue to stop asking her just how she defines ‘lucky’.

  The more I think about it, though, the more it seems apparent that whoever did it was looking for something specific. The file hidden away upstairs flashes into my mind, but I dismiss it; no one even knows it exists, never mind that I have it. It’s paranoid to assume that my interest in Cutter and a random burglary when my house is empty are connected. Probably just someone looking for Christmas presents, new stuff that’s easy to hawk round the pubs for a bit of New Year cash.

  Speaking of New Year, I’ll need to get my act together; I’m going to be on the streets doing a feature on sleeping rough on New Year’s Eve to highlight the plight of the homeless. I won’t be on my own; Carl the photographer has copped for the assignment as well, something he’s less than pleased about. If I’m honest, I’m less enthusiastic than I was initially, at least in part because of the break-in.

  25: Cutter

  I start getting ready for the party early on New Year’s Eve. Having checked in at the club that everything’s going according to plan, I head off to the gym to work out, followed by the steam room and a massage, then go for a haircut, a manicure and a facial.

  Back home my gear’s all ready. Nothing but the best: suit from Savile Row, shirt from Jermyn Street, silk tie from Hong Kong and Italian leather shoes, all handmade, of course.

  I’m just fixing my cufflinks when she comes and stands beside me and admires us both in the mirror. ‘We look good together, don’t we?’ she says and I have to admit she’s right. She still scrubs up canny, and she certainly looks the part tonight; she has a kind of a glow about her.

  ‘We do,’ I say as I look us up and down, making sure everything is spot on. Appearance is everything at an event like tonight’s party. It’s all about enhancing my reputation, cementing my place in society. The guest list has been carefully chosen and while the club will still be open to punters, the door staff have been told to be extra selective.

  I do the rounds when we get to the club, and everything is going according to plan. Charlie and Dek are there with their wives, a couple of game old girls who’ve been to more parties here than most can shake a stick at, although admittedly most of them were with Mac’s firm. Still, they know the score; how to dress, how much to drink, who to mix with, what to say.

  Tommy, Wayne and Big Liam are on their own. Tommy’s had the hard word and he should have ditched that bird by now, and Wayne was warned about turning up with boys in tow. As for Big Liam, Del – Lady Pain – is expected to attend, and I think he’s looking forward to seeing her. Mind you, so am I; I can’t wait to see what she turns up in tonight.

  The party’s in full swing when she arrives and she looks amazing. This time the hair is silver, to match the nails and the stilettos, the eyes are turquoise, and she’s wearing red lipstick to match a short dress that turns out to be made of the softest suede I’ve ever touched. Every head turns as she approaches us and Liam and Tommy nearly knock each other out in their rush to say hello and get her a drink. I see Wayne smirk. He’ll be laughing on the other side of his face when I’m finished with him.

  The wife’s at the ladies when Del turns up and when she comes back and sees me talking to her, she looks like she’s sucking on a lemon. I give her a look and she finds a smile, but it’s not very convincing. She’s doing a great job of getting herself the sack; plenty more where she came from.

  We all do the rounds and mingle with our guests, keeping glasses and noses topped up, the latter albeit very discreetly. We’ve roped off the usual VIP area plus a chunk of the club and a section of the bar – which is free for guests, of course – and as well as villains there’s a satisfying mix of local dignitaries and celebs, and the party is nicely busy. Normal punters are eyeballing the party crowd, slags trying to catch footballers’ eyes, and the regular photographer from a local ‘scene’ mag is pointing his lens at the guests. I give him five minutes to snap away, then stroll over.

  ‘All right, Mr Cutter?’ he says.

  ‘All right, Eric,’ I say, remembering his name at the last minute, ‘how’s it going?’

  ‘Canny, ta. Just got a few shots; I’ll be doing a feature on the club in the next issue. Do you a good price on an ad, if you like.’

  ‘Give Natalie a call and she’ll sort something out with you.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  ‘Are you coming in for a drink?’ I ask, unhooking the rope. ‘No pics this close, mind, but you’re welcome to join us to see the year in.’

  He looks at his watch and sees it’s about ten to midnight. ‘Really? Oh, thanks, Mr C, love to, ta!’

  Mr C? Since when was I Mr fucking C? I consider uninviting him, but he looks so eager and grateful as he stows the camera in the case he has slung crosswise over his body and strolls into the VIP area that I decide to let it slide this once. It’s New Year’s Eve, after all. Eric can’t resist a glance at the green-eyed onlookers as he joins the in-crowd.

  ‘There’s an open bar; just tell them what you want.’

  ‘Thanks!’

  He heads over to the bar, keen to have a gargle to see the year in with, and who would blame him. I wouldn’t normally mix with the likes of him, but he’s been very generous with his coverage of the club, so fair’s fair. Just another part of taking care of business.

  The DJ gives everyone a three-minute warning, then counts down from ten seconds to the hour. As Big Ben chimes the New Year in, the image on a
big screen for the benefit of the punters, the club erupts in a burst of cheering and shouting, then as one they join crossed hands and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’. You can feel the goodwill in the air, and then she staggers over to me, the wife, cross-eyed and runny-nosed, and I realise what she’s been doing all those times she trotted off during the course of the evening. I turn my back in disgust.

  ‘Don’t, Gordon,’ she says, ‘don’t turn your back on me. I’m your wife. I’m your fucking wife!’

  I round on her, furious. ‘Then act like it,’ I hiss at her. ‘Look at you, making a show of yourself, you’re a bloody disgrace! You’re supposed to be the hostess at this party and you can hardly stand up!’

  A big fat tear slides out of one glassy eye and carves its way through the make-up to drop off her chin onto the floor. Another follows it and I’ve had enough. If there wasn’t an audience, I’d show her the hairy side; as it is, I take her by the arm and march her to my office, where I push her none too gently into one of the armchairs. I hear the door open and close again and see that Dek’s wife, Paula, has followed me in. ‘Can I help?’ she asks.

  ‘Yes, thanks, Paula. I think Sharon’s had a bit too much of the good stuff; she’s a bit tired and emotional.’

  ‘I’ll keep her company until she’s feeling a bit better,’ she says. She spots the water cooler and gets the wife a glass of water. If it was me I’d throw it in her face, but she holds it for her and encourages her to take a few sips. ‘You get back to your guests,’ she says, ‘I’ll look after things here.’