Read The Faithless Online

Authors: Martina Cole

Tags: #Fiction, #Crime, #General

The Faithless (29 page)

Mary nodded in agreement.

‘Cynthia is trouble; she’s a liar, and she’s dangerous. But, at the end of the day, she
is
Gabby’s mother.’

‘More’s the fucking pity. Well, I’ll have to wait and see if she asks me about it, won’t I?’

But Celeste wasn’t listening any more; the woman on
Trisha
was confronting her demons, which were drink and drugs, and Trisha as always was sympathetic but firm. Celeste liked Trisha, she had a nice way about her.

Mary watched the screen blankly, her mind in turmoil. Cynthia plus Gabby added up to a disaster, and she knew she had to make sure that any meeting between them was monitored. By herself if possible. None of this was good for her heart, she knew, but it was something that had to be addressed and at the earliest possible opportunity. Her daughter Cynthia was like Jaws – just when you thought it was safe to go back into the water . . . back she came, like the proverbial bad penny.

One thing was for sure though – Jack must never know about any of this. He would see his elder daughter dead before he let her back in this family again.

Chapter Seventy-Nine
 

Terry Marchant was a Mancunian with a loud laugh and an even larger thirst. Vincent liked him and, along with his two cronies Patrick Miles and Anthony Dawes, he was good company. They were blaggers extraordinaire, and they roamed the country robbing banks and building societies with gay abandon. They did the stealing, and then relied on a good wheelman to get them out of the way. Which is where Vincent came in; he got ten per cent of the load, and all he had to do was drive. It was a doddle.

Now, sitting in a pub on Southend Seafront drinking orange juice, Vincent was getting a real insight into the men he would be dealing with. Terry Marchant was a hardcase, that was obvious to anyone. He had the look, the build and the carriage of a man who it would be foolish to mess with. Vincent had learnt that over the years – you could tell from looking at certain people whether or not you could fuck with them. Terry Marchant was a definite no-no in that respect. But he was a lot of fun, and he had a great personality. His two colleagues were small-time, but nice blokes all the same. Vincent felt he would enjoy working with them.

Terry Marchant, for his part, was pleased to see that the lad was not drinking alcohol. Even though the blag wasn’t for a few days, he appreciated that the kid wasn’t stupid enough to get a tug for driving over the limit. It meant he was sensible, and unlikely to get himself on the police radar, so to speak. Derek had spoken highly of the boy, and that should have been enough
for him, but Terry still preferred to look the drivers over and form his own opinion of them before he gave the nod. Buyer beware and all that. He was weighing out a nice wedge for Vincent, and their livelihoods depended on him doing a good job.

It was strange really; no one ever understood that robbing was the easy part – it was the disappearing act afterwards that was hard. Once people saw a sawn-off, they tended to do as they were told. The Old Bill, on the other hand, were not so amenable. They hated blaggers with a vengeance; there was nothing so annoying to a Filth than a bank being knocked over in their jurisdiction. Fucking muppets! What were banks for? Sitting there, full of wonga, and no real security. Done properly it was a piece of cake.

He and the boys had sussed out the lay of the land already. It was a good little set up and the bank would be full of dough as it had all the wages for the surrounding areas waiting to be picked up. It was on a quiet road too – just the kind of place he liked. They’d do a final check but he was sure they’d covered all the bases and they’d be in and out, quick as a flash.

Terry ordered more drinks and started to tell a story about an old mate from Warrington who had robbed a bank while drunk as a cunt. It was a funny story but it was also a bit of an allegory. It showed the stupidity of people while in the throes of alcohol, and how badly things could go against you if you weren’t careful.

He noticed that young Vincent listened raptly, and he knew then that he had got his point across with the minimum of fuss. He didn’t like aggro and he didn’t like heroes. He liked people to do their jobs and forget about it. Seemed that this kid had all the attributes he needed.

So, finally, Terry Marchant relaxed and was able to enjoy the rest of his stay in Southend.

Chapter Eighty
 

‘I told the social worker I didn’t want to see her, Nana.’

Mary relaxed, breathing out a heartfelt sigh of relief. ‘You did the right thing, child. She wouldn’t have wanted to see you for any other reason than trouble. God forgive me for saying that about my own daughter, but it’s the truth. Everything she touches she destroys, and we both know that, don’t we?’

Gabby nodded. ‘I’m sorry I never told you, Nana. I didn’t want to upset you. But when I came in and saw your face I knew then Auntie Celly had to have said something.’

Mary smiled sadly. ‘She did it for the best, lovie.’

Gabby nodded, but her eyes were filling with unshed tears. ‘I know, Nana, but I wanted to see her a bit, just a little bit. She
is
my mum.’

Mary held her granddaughter close and comforted her as best she could, all the time cursing her elder daughter. Why couldn’t she have just stayed away? Why did she want to upend this child’s life on a whim? With Cynthia she had no doubt it
would
be a whim. No good could come of it.

Chapter Eighty-One
 

Vincent was waiting patiently outside the bank in Essex. It was twenty past ten in the morning, and Terry Marchant and his two accomplices had just walked into the bank, ski masks over their heads and sawn-offs in their sports bags.

Vincent watched through the window. The bank didn’t get busy until lunchtime and so at nearly ten thirty it was more or less empty with just the three tellers inside and a couple of young mums paying their electric bills. He watched the pantomime unfold inside and, five minutes later, the men were on their way to the car and he was already getting ready to drive away. It had been so easy – too easy really. He was around the roundabout and on his way to Basildon before the first sirens were even heard in the distance.

At Basildon he turned off towards the train station, and the three men, now devoid of ski masks and without their distinctive red tracksuit tops – which were all the bystanders would remember – were relaxed and laughing. The adrenaline rush was over, and their job was done without so much as a hiccough. They chopped the cars with the minimum of fuss, leaving everything behind them except the money, and they were back in Southend within the hour.

Never had Vincent O’Casey had such a spectacular day. And never had he believed that a blag could be that fucking simple. They had netted just under a hundred grand, and he went home ten thousand pounds better off; it was like all his Christmases
and birthdays had come at once. The best thing had been that he had loved it, loved every second of it. And tonight he was going to have the greatest night out of his life.

Chapter Eighty-Two
 

Gabby had never seen so much money before in her life, and her eyes widened in disbelief. Vincent loved seeing her reaction as he showed her his cut.

Gabby looked at him in amazement. ‘Ten grand!’

He grinned. ‘Yes, ten thousand pounds, and keep your voice down or we’ll have your nana and granddad in on top of us in a minute.’

‘They’re out, you div – they’ve gone to bingo with Mrs Jacobs over the road. And Auntie Celly ain’t gonna come in here, she’s watching her soaps. A fucking bomb couldn’t get her away from the telly when Grant Mitchell’s on.’

Suddenly they were both quiet, realising what that meant. Then, grabbing her, Vincent started to kiss her, and it was unlike any kiss they had ever had before. Gabby was in her dressing gown and, as he slipped it off her shoulders, she knew that she wouldn’t stop him, this time she would let him. When he lay her down on her little single bed, and she felt the money beneath her body, she knew that this was meant to be, that they were meant to be together.

Two big events in one day, and Vincent felt like he was the king of the world.

Chapter Eighty-Three
 

‘I’m telling you, the kid’s good, Del. He didn’t even break a sweat, and I know more experienced men who still collapse under that kind of pressure.’

Derek Greene was pleased at Terry’s praise of his protégé. He had a good nose for talent, and he prided himself on nurturing that talent and finding a role which suited the person best.

‘No, Del, he’s a good one. I was well impressed.’

‘How was your hotel? All right?’

‘Perfect – small, out of the way, and run by an old couple who couldn’t describe their own arses without a picture of it in their hands. Nice grub and all. It was a good little overnighter.’

Derek was thrilled. Terry Marchant was a Face of Faces in Manchester, but he still liked to work. He was a natural-born blagger, it was in his blood. It wasn’t as if he even needed the money – what Terry needed was the rush. Just like his own father, Terry Marchant liked the thought of getting one over on the banking system and the Old Bill.

‘So you would use him again, then?’

‘In a heartbeat. He’s got a natural talent for it, and that’s rare in this day and age. Too many young lads can’t keep their fucking traps shut. Also, he’s a nice kid, easygoing, never saw him drink once, only orange juice. That tells me he has a bit of savvy about him. I’ll spread the word when I get back to Manchester, you’ll get more calls for him.’

Derek nodded, pleased with the result. He had his cut nicely
stashed in the safe at the scrapyard – that was what he called his petty cash. His beer and entertainment money. He had a feeling he would be getting quite a bit more of that kind of money from hiring out young Vincent in the near future. He only hoped the kid didn’t go splashing out on motors and watches he should not have been able to afford, thereby bringing down on him the interest of Lily Law.

The Filth were always aware when a local boy had a new car, or too much money in their pockets; it was what alerted them to potential Faces. Derek’s dad had drummed that into his head – always have a legitimate business on the go. A real business could explain away houses, cars and holidays. It also let you live a legal life with mortgages, loans, etc. But he had explained that to young Vincent, and he was a sensible kid; Derek was sure he would have taken it onboard. But he knew better than anyone how money in the hand could burn a hole as big as the Ritz in certain people’s pockets, so all he could do now was wait and see. He wasn’t too bothered about it. He had a feeling that Vincent O’Casey had an agenda of his own, and that agenda was about that bird of his. Pretty little thing she was as well. Nice face, shame about her mother! He smiled at his own wit. Well, only time would tell with Vincent, and Derek Greene had all the time in the world.

Chapter Eighty-Four
 

Cynthia watched her daughter leave the house and get into Vincent O’Casey’s car which was parked outside her parents’ home. She was in her own car, a small BMW convertible, but she was wearing a scarf and it was dark, so she wasn’t worried about being noticed.

Vincent, however, had parked under a lamppost, so she had a good view of her daughter and her beau. She was surprised it was still Vincent O’Casey – surprised and annoyed. Didn’t Gabriella have any idea at all? Had she learned nothing from her mother? But then, this was
her
mother’s influence, she was sure. Get the first boy that gives you any attention and marry him before someone else does. Cynthia was actually gritting her teeth with annoyance and she made a conscious effort to relax herself.

It was odd, being back in the old neighbourhood; she hated it even more now than she had then. It was so scruffy and so depressing, no wonder the women who lived here looked defeated and so
old.
It was as if they had given up on themselves, which of course they had. Cynthia prided herself on her skin, on her trim figure and she dressed to impress – these women dressed to go up the shops!

But her Gabriella was a beauty, she would give her that. She was just like Cynthia at the same age – all tits, legs and slim waist, and she held herself and walked well. That was important to a woman, walking well. Her old nanny used to say ‘Walk into
a room like you own it and the chances are one day you will.’ Pity Mary had never listened to her own mother – how different things might have turned out. Imagine still living in the first house the council gave you! That was her mum and dad all over; no fucking ambition, no desire for something better. Just grateful for being alive. How she would love to knock on that door, and give them the fright of their lives. She knew it would be her mother who put the kibosh on her daughter seeing her. Her mother would not want to lose the girl now she had her.

In truth, Cynthia was amazed at how much the refusal had hurt her. Why should she care about it so much? Her pride had definitely been hurt. And that social worker had irritated her with her fake sympathy and platitudes. Silly bitch – like she gave a flying fuck what she thought.

Still, she had made the woman promise to keep her up-to-date on her daughter’s life, and she had agreed to that. Fucking cheek! This was
her
child,
she
had given birth to her, not that fucking old bitch of a mother of hers, or that dried-up stick of a social worker. No, it had been her, Cynthia Tailor that was, who had endured nine months of hell and eighteen long, hard hours of labour. She bet her mother had had a field day, advising her granddaughter to keep away from her own flesh and blood.

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