Hustle (The Glass Family) Read online

  Hustle

  Owen Mullen

  Contents

  The Players:

  Poland Street, Soho, London

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Part II

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Part III

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Epilogue

  Postscript

  THIEF

  Acknowledgments

  More from Owen Mullen

  Also by Owen Mullen

  About the Author

  About Boldwood Books

  For Devon and Harrison Carney

  One of you told me real monsters don’t wear shoes.

  Very soon you’ll read this and know that isn’t true.

  Three people can keep a secret if two of them are dead.

  Danny Glass

  The Players:

  Luke Glass... Head of London's most powerful crime family

  Nina Glass... Luke's sister and front woman of Glass Houses Real Estate

  Charley Glass... Luke's sister and face of LBC nightclub

  George Ritchie... Front man/enforcer for all illegal activities south of the River Thames

  Mark Douglas...Head of security north of the river

  Oliver Stanford...Once Danny Glass' pet poodle, now a high-ranking officer in the Metropolitan Police Service and still on The Family payroll

  Felix Corrigan... Gang boss in east London and George Ritchie's second in command

  Posh Boys (the Toffee gang):

  Rafe ...Henry's elder brother and leader of the gang

  Henry...Rafe's younger brother and reluctant member

  Julian...Rafe's partner in crime

  Coco... Rafe's lover and thrill seeker

  Street Gang:

  Thomas Timpson, aka TT ...Gang leader

  Jethro/Jet...Gang member

  Boz... Gang member

  Poland Street, Soho, London

  It had been a cold day in the capital, the coldest of the year, and with the temperature dropping snowflakes fluttered and fell on the crowds hurrying about their business on Shaftesbury Avenue. A guy in a Santa beard and jeans torn at the knees knocked seven bells out of the Wizzard classic ‘I Wish It Could Be Christmas Everyday’, loud and raw, his breath condensing in the chilly air. He wore a red and white woolly hat, and gloves with the fingers cut off so he could play. On the ground in front of him a collection of coins, mostly silver, lay in his open guitar case. The woman in a cashmere coat rushing by had gone for a walk to kill time before her appointment. Now, she was late and didn’t give the busker a second glance. In Wardour Street, she passed St Anne’s churchyard and kept going. Across from The Ship public house, once a watering hole of John Lennon and Jimi Hendrix, she made a left, then a right into Poland Street where her car was parked, walking purposefully, in no doubt where she was going.

  The entrance to the building was lit by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling inside the doorway. She hesitated, drew her expensive coat around her and climbed the stairs. Behind her, a car pulled to a stop near the green and gold façade of the Star and Garter. Like the busker with the guitar, she didn’t notice the three people in black reefer jackets who got out, or the good-looking guy with the stylish blond hair leading them.

  In his office on the second landing, Jan Stuka was waiting. With more than sixty years in the trade, the old jeweller had no need to advertise his talents. He’d owned the room in Poland Street for decades, though only came here when he had a client to meet. Stuka was a craftsman, an artist, a stout little man with a goatee and spectacles, who could’ve set up shop in Hatton Garden like so many others and guaranteed himself a comfortable living. Instead, he’d gone a different route, fashioning bespoke pieces using only top-quality gems, singular creations for those interested in the best.

  When she’d explained she wanted a bracelet for a man with the inscription From N to M – all my love, he’d stared balefully over his wire-rimmed spectacles; romantic messages on an item she could’ve bought from any high-street shop left him unmoved, and for a second the woman was convinced coming to him had been a mistake. The necklace had brought a different reaction. As she’d described what she imagined, he’d mellowed, making notes in a small dog-eared book, asking questions in a guttural accent, even finding the enthusiasm to suggest the male jewellery might be a classic design, eighteen-carat gold cuff – simple and stylish.

  Perfect; she was delighted: someone was going to be very pleased.

  During her second visit he’d shown detailed charcoal sketches based on their previous conversation, including the otherwise plain bracelet and its inscription. Stuka was an old-school artisan craftsman; he didn’t understand high-tech computer-modelling software and made everything by hand. The third time he’d proudly unveiled wax replicas of what he intended to produce, subject to her approval. This evening, they’d select the stones to make the necklace a reality – FL diamonds, flawless and clear, and pure blue sapphires, AAA quality. Finally, he’d tell her how much it was going to cost.

  Not that she gave a damn about that.

  On the landing, a bodyguard stood to attention, steroid-induced man-breasts pressing against the fabric of his shirt, thick arms folded. He didn’t turn his expressionless face towards her until she reached him. When he did, there was no recognition in his dull eyes and she realised the guy was on more than hormones. Swollen fingers tapped the door, the electronic lock buzzed and released. Before he could react, the three figures she hadn’t seen on her way in rushed from the shadows wearing balaclavas and pushed her through the door; the butt of a revolver crashed against the side of the guard’s head and they dragged him into the room, screaming threats at the old man.

  ‘Open the safe! Don’t fuck me about or I’ll blow you away!’

  Rafe Purefoy’s well-modulated voice was at odds with the jargon. The jeweller didn’t blink. ‘Do this the easy way, granddad, and nobody gets hurt. Don’t be afraid.’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘Good for you. Just don’t be a hero.’

  Stuka was telling the truth: by the time the Soviet army arrived, Jan was ten kilos underweight, suffering from tuberculosis and barely able to stand, yet he’d survived in a place where more than a million had perished, his parents and grandparents among them. After that, what was there to fear?

  He pulled up his sleeve to reveal the tattoo – 6613145 – faded into the mottled skin.

  Defiance burned in the old Jew’s eyes. Anger thickened his accent. ‘What would trash like you know about heroes?’

  The slight didn’t faze the robber. He said, ‘On another day, I’d buy you a drink and you could tell me what it was like. We’d have an interesting conversation. Except, that isn’t where we are, is it? And respecting what you’ve been through won’t stop me putting a bullet in you. Whatever you believe, believe that. Now, open the fucking safe.’

  Stuka spat on the bare floorboards at his feet. ‘Nie.’

  Behind his mask the thief smiled. ‘I’m guessing that’s Polish for no.’

  He grabbed the woman by the arm, pulled her towards him and held the gun to her temple. She stiffened but didn’t cry out. Rafe spoke to the jeweller. ‘You should’ve died a long time ago. Somehow, you got lucky and didn’t. Eighty years down the line you’re fine about it. I understand.’ He dug the muzzle into the female’s smooth skin. ‘Take a look at her. She’s what? Thirty-five, thirty-six, maybe? How does she feel about it being all over? Ask her.’ His finger closed round the gentle sweep of the trigger. ‘In thirty seconds, we’ll be leaving empty-handed and you’ll both be dead. What I’d call a lose-lose situation. Imagine making it out of a Nazi camp for it to finish in a grubby little cubbyhole in Soho because of a few stones. What would the poor bastards in Auschwitz, Buchenwald and the rest of those hellholes say?’ He shook his head at the irony. ‘Do what I’m telling you or she gets it. Right here. Right now.’

  On the floor the bodyguard groaned, regaining consciousness.

  ‘The old fucker thinks we’re bluffing. Let’s show him we’re not.’

  Under the reefer jacket and the balaclava, the speaker was indistinguishable from the other two. The words were hard despite the soft tone. Coco went to the helpless man on the ground and straddled him, arms straight, pointing down, both hands on the revolver. staring into his terrified face, savouring his fear. The bodyguard realised what was coming and held his palms up impotently against it. ‘No! No! Don’t! It was me who told you.’

  ‘And we’re grateful.’

  The silenced shots popped like balloons. Nobody would hear them outside the room. She ste
pped over the limp body and took up position at the only window as though nothing had happened.

  Through the frosted glass, snow was falling on Soho. Stuka said, ‘I’ve met your kind all my life. You’re animals.’

  The gun barrel carved a perfect circle on the hostage’s neck. Tomorrow – if there was a tomorrow – there would be a bruise.

  Rafe said, ‘We’re serious people – you saw what we did to the guard. Tell this old fool you don’t want to die. Tell prisoner 6613145 to open the bloody safe before I blow your pretty head off.’

  The jeweller’s resistance was admirable but it was fading – he was afraid, though not for himself. For her. She took a deep breath. ‘Don’t open it. They’re going to kill us, anyway.’

  Stuka had seen unbearable inhumanity, yet he couldn’t allow himself to believe what she was saying. He shook his grey head. ‘No, no, they won’t. Not if I give them what they came for.’

  ‘We’ve just watched them murder an unarmed man. They can’t leave us alive. We’re witnesses.’

  Stuka shook his head. ‘Witnesses to what? Masks and jackets? No, we’ll be okay if they get what they want.’ He turned to the safe embedded in the wall behind him and knelt in front of it. In the silence, the tumblers falling was the only sound. With the last click, the door swung open. Stuka lifted out a grey metal box, set it on the desk and raised the lid. The robbers edged closer: this was why they were here. Inside were four small purple velvet purses with drawstring tops. The jeweller spilled the contents of each one onto the desk in neat piles. Even in the poorly lit office, the gems sparkled and shimmered.

  Rafe had to know. ‘Why four? Why four pouches?’

  ‘Diamonds and sapphires. Two pouches each: the very good and the very best. I only work with quality.’

  ‘How much are they worth?’

  Stuka eyed his captor with contempt. ‘Anyone who looks at these and thinks only of money is a cretin. Sapphires take millions of years to form. A blink of an eye compared with diamonds.’ He rolled a perfectly clear stone away from the others with his finger. ‘The process that created this beautiful thing began more than a billion years ago. Perhaps even as much as three billion.’

  He gave them a second to take in the enormity of what he’d told them, then tilted the desk; a small fortune in stones cascaded in a drumroll on the wooden floor and scattered – after the old man’s history lesson, it was the last thing the thieves had expected. The jeweller seized his opportunity, reached for the mask nearest him and clawed it away. ‘Now we can identify these cowards.’

  Coco screamed, ‘Shoot him! Shoot him!’

  Rafe hesitated, blinking rapidly, as though he couldn’t take in what had happened, and fired. Mr Stuka fell over, his white shirt instantly turning red: shot through the heart, the man who’d survived the horror of a concentration camp died instantly.

  Rafe shouted, ‘Get the stones! Move, we need out of here!’

  The third robber twisted the woman’s arm up her back. ‘What’ll we do with this bitch?’

  Coco had no doubts. ‘She’s seen Rafe’s face. Put her down.’

  Rafe disagreed. ‘No, we’ll take her with us in case there’s a problem.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. She’s seen you, heard your name.’

  The leader stood his ground. ‘Don’t argue, she’s coming.’

  Out on the street, the car was waiting with the engine turning over. Behind the wheel, Henry couldn’t hide his nervousness; he was still in his teens, younger than the others, and only here because he was Rafe’s brother.

  ‘Did something go wrong?’ He saw the stranger and realised his question had been answered. ‘Who’s she?’

  ‘Drive! Just drive!’

  ‘With her? Where?’

  ‘Stick to the plan. Hampstead. Julian’s aunt’s place like we agreed.’

  The wheels spun on the icy road. In the back seat, the woman sitting between Coco and Julian hadn’t spoken since telling Mr Stuka not to open the safe. Jan Stuka hadn’t listened and it had gone badly for him. The thieves, murderers now, took off their balaclavas. The guy in the front was handsome: perfect white teeth, piercing blue eyes set in smooth boyish skin, and blond hair expensively styled so it fell to one side of his face at the front. Beneath his jacket he wore a midnight-blue silk scarf casually tied at the neck. The girl was slim, twenty-two or -three, with crimson streaks in her black bob matching her painted nails. Two minutes earlier she’d ended a life; no one would guess. Her breathing was steady and calm, detached from the callous crime that had left two dead in the upstairs office.

  The third man pulled off the mask and let it drop from his slender fingers to the floor. His face was white, unnaturally pale, the lean jaw covered in designer stubble. Above it, a receding hairline made him look older than his years. Intensity surrounded him like an aura. At its core, an anger that curled the bloodless line of his lips at the edges. He spoke quietly, his tone sharp and crisp, each word heavy with foreboding.

  ‘This is a mistake, Rafe. A huge fucking mistake. We ought to have finished her when we had the chance. She’s dangerous.’

  Rafe airily dismissed his objection. ‘Be a good chap and put a sock in it, Julian. She’s fine.’ He turned in his seat and smiled at the woman. ‘You’re not going to be a problem, are you, darling?’

  Julian Greyland lowered his grey eyes and resisted the urge to argue. The exchange revealed the pecking order in the group and the tensions between them. The driver didn’t count – an immature boy out of his depth on a good day. The other three were very different people with one thing in common – the absolute certainty they were superior.

  It wasn’t just the plummy accents or the assured way they held themselves; it was everything, and it rolled off them. Killing the jeweller and the guard had cost them nothing because they believed them to be nothing.

  Outside the world went about its pre-Christmas business, unaware of the drama. On Wardour Street, heading north, Coco had never felt more alive. She snatched the woman’s bag, emptied it onto her lap and sifted through the contents. The soft-leather Hermes purse inside held cash and credit cards, lipstick, a comb and a compact. Nothing unusual. Until she read the cardholder’s name.

  ‘Well, well, well.’

  Rafe saw the excitement on her face. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Guess who we’ve got here. Guess who this bitch is.’

  ‘Stop fucking about, Coco, who?’

  ‘Nina Glass. We’ve only kidnapped Luke Glass’ sister. Christ Almighty.’

  Part I

  1

  Day 1: Thursday – 2 weeks before Christmas

  The car crossed Marylebone Road and skirted the black void of Regent’s Park on Albany Street. By the time they reached Haverstock Hill, it was snowing heavily and they were forced to slow down. Nobody spoke – not a word – the unnatural silence broken only by the rhythmic slap-slap of the wipers. The young driver’s frantic questions about what had gone wrong and why they’d brought the stranger with them had failed to get an answer. Henry didn’t ask again and concentrated on following the wet tracks left by the vehicles that had gone before them, glancing wide-eyed across at his brother, seeking reassurance. It didn’t come. Rafe stared unblinking through the windscreen and offered him nothing. In the back seat, pressed between the woman who’d shot the bodyguard in cold blood and the third robber, Nina felt the strange mix of tension and elation: whoever these people were, they weren’t pros. That brought no comfort; amateurs were unpredictable, likely to panic if they were cornered and do something that couldn’t be undone. Robbing the jeweller wasn’t supposed to end this way – taking a hostage, especially Luke Glass’ sister, hadn’t been part of the plan. The driver and the man beside her were spooked – she could smell their fear on them. And frightened people were dangerous people.