Billie Jo. Kimberley Chambers

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СКАЧАТЬ Hazel had seemed quite normal at first. She was a typical Essex bird with a bubbly personality to match, but they say you should never judge a book by its cover and this turned out to be true, as Hazel turned out to be anything but normal. After marrying young to an ageing ex-bank robber called Stan and producing three children in quick succession, Hazel was very happy with the cards she’d been dealt. With plenty of money shoved into offshore accounts for a rainy day, Hazel was the brains behind Stan’s thieving. Stan would nick it and Hazel would stash it and together they made a very good team.

      As time went on Stan moved into the pub protection game. Within a year, things went tits up and he got a ten stretch for torturing some poor bastard in the back room of a boozer along the Barking Road. Six months into his sentence, Stan keeled over with a heart attack and promptly snuffed it. Overnight Hazel became a very rich lady indeed.

      Julie Beale was the next not-right to become Chelle’s friend. At forty-six years old, with the voice of a man and the body of a Russian shot putter, at first glance she could seem quite scary. An ex-prostitute, Julie had spent the latter part of her working life employed as a madam at a massage parlour in Ilford. A substantial inheritance left by one of her regular clients had led to her taking an early retirement.

      The final member of the Fab Four went by the name of Suzie Robinson. At thirty-five years old, she was the baby of the gang. Happily married to Richie who owned a scrapyard in Rainham, Suzie had seemed quite square compared to the rest of them. It wasn’t until one evening when they’d been caning the wine all day, that her story bubbled to the surface. She had done a year in Holloway for an offence to do with her first husband, Trevor. Once released, Suzie left him and ran off up north with the eighteen-year-old brother of one of her former inmates. Sick of feeling like his mother, Suzie had had enough within a year and headed back down south. A year later, she married her current husband, Richie.

      Michelle’s thoughts were interrupted by Georgie the owner telling them that their cab was outside.

      Sitting in a backstreet boozer in Stepney Green, Terry began to get agitated. Giving Davey Mullins the nod to go up to the bar, Terry moved towards the lying little bastard sitting opposite him.

      ‘Look, don’t fuck with me, kid. I know for a fact your story don’t ring true, ’cause I’ve checked it with the other lads. No one else could have had that money away, bar you. Don’t take me as some kind of a cunt, believe me that’ll be the worst mistake you’ll ever make. Now, you’ve got until next Saturday lunchtime to get the money you’ve chored back to me. Think yourself lucky, Paul, that I’m good pals with your uncle, ’cause believe me, you wouldn’t have such an easy ride if me and Archie weren’t muckers. Now, I know where you live and I’m sending Davey Boy to pick up the dough. Once you’ve paid, I want you to get out the area. If I ever see your ugly mug again, Paul, I swear as God’s my judge, I’ll gut you like a fucking fish.’

      Paul Cox could feel his bowel loosening as he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Terry Keane frightened the life out of him and in all his twenty-seven years, he’d never met anyone with such evil eyes, piercing blue and pure fucking evil.

      He could visualise himself being chopped up into little pieces and ending up in concrete, propping up one of the flyovers along the A13. He knew in that instant that he wasn’t cut out for this kind of work, dealing with these kind of people. He’d only got involved as a favour to his Uncle Archie, who was currently in the Scrubs taking a holiday at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Archie had needed someone he could trust for a while to take over the reins and Paul had offered to lend a helping hand. Realising he’d made a big mistake by being light-fingered, Paul downed his bottle of Becks and rose unsteadily from his seat.

      ‘Look, I’m really sorry, Tel. I’ll have your money back by Saturday, I promise.’ On exiting the run-down pub, Paul found the nearest kerb and retched.

      Michelle looked at the minicab driver and snarled, ‘You’re taking the piss. You ain’t getting thirty-five, you robbing bastard. I’ll give you a score.’ Ali hated being a minicab driver. He made his own fares up as he went along. The worse the customer, the more he charged. Snatching the money, he breathed a sigh of relief as the abusive, drunken women got out of his car. Furious, he opened his window. ‘I know where you live, you English bitches. I will be back.’ Pulling her trousers down, Michelle gave him a flash of her fat arse. Hazel, Julie and Suzie opted for wanker signs.

      In stitches, the girls spilled into Hazel’s kitchen. ‘I’ll be back,’ Hazel said, mimicking an Indian accent.

      ‘Fucking Delhi’s answer to Arnie Schwarzenegger,’ Chelle screamed. Crying with laughter, the girls fell onto Hazel’s kitchen floor.

      Over in Stepney, Terry’s face was like thunder. He’d had a proper little deal going for years now, with an old boy from Bethnal Green who answered to the name of Archie Cox. Archie and Terry had originally been introduced by Terry’s old boss, Benny Bones, and over the years they had built up an honest and trustworthy friendship. The little scam they had going had brought in bundles over the years and until recently was infallible. Buying up write-offs from salvage yards that were badly damaged but not mangled beyond recognition, the motors were loaded onto recovery trucks and driven out to the remote outskirts of Cambridgeshire, where they owned a couple of yards in the middle of nowhere. They would then call on the services of the top-class young car thieves who were on their payroll, to go out and steal the exact same model. The stolen vehicles would immediately have the number plate removed and swapped for the write-offs. They would then be driven out to Cambridgeshire in the middle of the night where three trustworthy mechanics would swap all the parts over, change the chassis number and make them reasonably untraceable. In reality, the original vehicles were stripped down and ceased to exist. The newly built motors were then shipped abroad to start a new life.

      Terry and Archie didn’t bother with any middle of the range motors, all the vehicles involved were top jolly, including Mercs, BMWs, Jags and Range Rovers to name but a few.

      They had over a dozen salvage yards dotted across the south-east that notified them of any suitable vehicle and readily accepted a large backhander for their trouble. It was an easy little scam, and very profitable, but just lately things had started to get a bit on top of them.

      Archie Cox, who organised all the shipping and was also the man that had all the contacts, had started to become greedy. At fifty-eight and already as rich as any fucker would ever need to be, Archie had decided to retire at sixty and head off to live in his villa in sunny Marbella.

      Being a gluttonous bastard and also becoming a bit careless in his latter years, Archie decided that he could improve on his income and he recruited a few extra lads to do some motors up locally. He was hoping his new venture would pull in at least another fifty grand a month.

      Terry had adamantly wanted nothing to do with Archie’s new idea. He’d told him he must be bonkers to change a system that had worked so well for years and he’d insisted he was playing with fire. Archie should have listened to the advice he was being given, as six months later the Old Bill raided a yard just off the Bow Road and found three of the ringers. Archie was jailed for four years.

      Terry wasn’t surprised when he heard about the arrest. Archie had played too close to home. He had no worries about the old boy opening his mouth. He was one of the old school and would rather have his bollocks cut off than grass up a mate. Terry felt so sorry for the poor old sod. He couldn’t understand why a man who had the credentials of Baron Rockefeller would choose to be so greedy in his last couple of working years. Nothing like that would ever happen to him while he had a hole in his arse; he was far too clued up to go down that road.

      Years ago, Terry could easily have taken over Archie’s contacts and run the show himself, but he’d chosen not to. He’d rather pay the old boy a percentage, СКАЧАТЬ