Insider

Owen Mullen

Description

Someone’s playing both sides and now they have a score to settle…

When the family business is crime, you can never be sure who to trust. And when three of their businesses are hit in one night, the notorious Glass family close ranks. Either someone is sending them a message or a war is coming...

With trouble coming from all sides, the heads of the Glass family have more than enough to deal with, but all bets are off when a stranger from the past enters the game, causing division and mistrust.

Crooked cops, rival gangs and old enemies are bad enough, but when the trouble comes from the inside, loyalties are tested, with deadly consequences.

Page-turning, gripping, gritty, Insider is perfect for fans of Martina Cole, Kimberley Chambers and Mandasue Heller.

What readers say about Owen Mullen:

'Owen Mullen knows how to ramp up the action just when it’s needed… he never fails to give you hard-hitting thrillers that have moments that will stay with you forever...'

'One of the very best thriller writers I have ever read.'

'Owen Mullen writes a good story, he really brings his characters to life and the endings are hard to guess and never what you expected.'

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Policier
• Thrillers
• Domestic
• General officer
• Espionage
• General
• Crime
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 29 juin 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781800484276
• Langue: English

Extrait

Insider


Owen Mullen
To Christine
Contents



Prologue


Part I


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8


Part II


Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16


Part III


Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25


Part IV


Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Epilogue

Postscript

Read on

Chapter 1


Acknowledgments

More from Owen Mullen

Also by Owen Mullen

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
Prologue
Holiday Inn, Lime Street, Liverpool

James Stevens – Jazzer to his friends – ducked into the hotel doorway, ran a wet hand over his face and shook water from his hair; ‘a drowned rat’ was the cliché in his head. That didn’t matter; he wasn’t here for his good looks. On the phone, the woman with the New York accent had told him he’d been recommended – she didn’t say who by – outlined the job and asked if he was interested. Yes or no? Jazzer sensed if he hesitated, the conversation would be over, the opportunity gone. He’d said yes and was glad, because, as the details emerged, what she wanted was a nice little earner: nothing he hadn’t done before. Too bloody right he was interested.
They’d arranged to meet in the hotel on Lime Street. Before the call ended, he’d asked, ‘How will I recognise you?’
The reply was strange, maybe a joke. ‘I wouldn’t worry about that.’
‘What should I call you?’
‘Why do you need to call me anything?’
‘I like to know who I’m working for.’
‘You’re not working for anybody yet.’
‘Tell me your name.’
‘It’s Charley.’
Jazzer clocked her immediately at a table near the back of the bar, and understood why she’d been confident about being recognised. The bar wasn’t busy but if it had been he would’ve still been able to pick her out: mid-thirties, long red hair, red lips and a full figure only a real man would take on; a 1950s movie-star type, striking and challenging, even from a distance. They didn’t shake hands. No small talk or would-you-like-a-drink malarkey. And Jazzer quickly realised two things: his wasn’t the only name on her list – maybe not even her first choice – and the lady languidly crossing her legs was no ordinary female.
The money she was offering was impressive, generous even. It soon became clear why. It wasn’t just one job. She gave him an envelope, soiled at the edges as if it had been carried in a pocket until she found the right person to give it to.
‘Any questions?’
‘No, no questions.’
‘You’re straight about what’s required?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Who you use and how many will be your decision. Don’t be greedy; to make it work will need a minimum of three. Any less increases the risk.’
Jazzer knew a dozen guys who’d fit the bill. ‘We won’t fuck it up.’
Her reply confirmed his assessment. ‘If I believed there was the slightest chance of that, I wouldn’t be sitting here. A word of warning: these aren’t boys you’ll be going against. The plan’s simple. Stick to it and it’ll be all right. We won’t talk again until London. I’ll meet you at the flat the next morning with the rest of the money. Are we clear?’
Jazzer weighed the envelope in his hand. Foolishly, he made a joke. ‘Tempted to get a taxi out to John Lennon Airport and disappear. Somewhere sunny would be nice.’
She smiled, a lipstick smear like blood on her teeth. ‘I’d find you. No matter where you went, I’d find you.’
Jazzer believed her.
Part I
1
River Cars, Lambeth, South London



Friday 8.57 p.m.
Ethel brushed a strand of stray hair from her eyes, wedged the little that was left of the cigarette in the corner of her mouth, and kept the oranges in the air with the deftness of a piano virtuoso. Her voice was an emotionless monotone her ex-husband would have no trouble recognising. Ethel was thirty-three years old, brunette, hard-faced and divorced with two kids. A lot of people would struggle with the job she did – the controller at River Cars – especially on Friday nights when everybody in Lambeth and their granny wanted a taxi. She chain-smoked Benson & Hedges, sipped a cold coffee that hadn’t been over-warm to begin with, and matched the requests for taxis to the nearest available cars.
It was still early. She was in a dull-yellow monstrosity of a portacabin on an unlit piece of spare ground behind a Spar food store. Ten vehicles, left by guys out on the road, were parked on the uneven earth. When the shifts changed at six in the morning, they’d disappear; others would take their place; she would go home and fall into bed.
The taxi game was a twenty-four-seven operation – drivers coming and going until the clubs and late-night pubs finally closed. Ethel wasn’t alone. Winston, her boyfriend, an unemployed painter and decorator from Jamaica who occasionally drove part-time for the firm, was with her, stretched out on a busted sofa, flicking through an old newspaper somebody had left behind.
Ethel put a fresh cigarette in her mouth and lit it off the one between her fingers.
‘Car for Victoria Mansions, South Lambeth Road. Going up West. Who’s nearest?’
A tinny voice replied through the static. ‘I’ll get it. Be there in six minutes.’
Winston looked up from his paper. ‘Sort us an E, will you, love?’
Ethel ignored him. He tried again. ‘C’mon, sort us.’
She turned emotionless eyes on him. ‘Got any money? ’Cause if you haven’t, forget it.’
‘But…’
‘Yeah… that’s what I thought.’
Ethel swore under her breath and brought her attention back to the phones. Winston was a freeloader, a loser she should never have got involved with. The reason he was here instead of with his pals in the pub was in the two black bin bags at her feet. While she worked her arse off, his plan was to get out of his head for fuck all, but she’d had it with him; he was on his way out. Winston had been a drunken error made one night when she’d still believed every black man was a stud – a mistake she’d kept repeating even after he’d proved it was a myth. What did she need him for, anyway? This job paid well – great, actually – Ethel could afford the life she wanted. All she needed from a bloke was sex, and Winston was no Idris Elba in that department.
Her voice bounced off the portacabin walls. ‘Car for Black Prince Road. Any takers?’



Ronnie hurried along the pavement, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying a sports bag with Nike on the side. When he reached his destination, he left the street, ducked into the shadow of the cars parked on the waste ground and hunkered down in the darkness. Jazzer had reckoned a couple, maybe three at the most, but a Scouser, especially one with a shooter, could handle three London lads any day of the week, no problem.
Ronnie rubbed his fingers together, feeling the sweat on them, unzipped the sports bag, drew a balaclava over his head and ran to the portacabin door. A flat female voice drifted outside. For a minute he paused, listening, hearing nothing but her nasal drawl and male south London accents through the static. He threw the door back and charged in, levelling the gun at the people inside. The surprised man and woman raised their hands on a reflex; Ethel’s cigarette fell from her fingers and smouldered on the carpet that hadn’t been cleaned since the day it had been tacked to the floor.
‘Give us what you’ve got and you won’t get hurt.’
Ronnie pronounced it ‘heert’.
She answered defiantly. ‘There’s no money until the shifts finish.’
Ronnie said, ‘Why don’t I just blow you and your shite chat away? I admire your bottle, Mrs, but save it. This is the wrong time to be a smart-arse. It isn’t appreciated. I’ll take whatever cash you’ve got but I’m not after money. So, don’t fuck me about!’
Winston said, ‘Give him what he wants – the money, the dope – give him all of it. It isn’t ours.’
Ethel pushed a bin bag along the floor with her foot.
Ronnie said, ‘Now the other one.’
Her lip curled in a sneer. ‘I feel sorry for you.’
‘Really, why’s that?’
‘You’re making the biggest mistake of your life and don’t even know it. If I were you, I’d drop those bags and start running.’
At the door, he stopped. ‘And if I were you, I’d think before I called the police. “They stole our drugs” won’t play well.’
He dipped his hand into one of the bags, brought out two blue pills and tossed them on the filthy carpet. ‘Enjoy the rest of your night.’





Eamon Durham, Independent Bookmakers, Lewisham, South London
Friday 9.00 p.m.
They moved swiftly, confidently, shotguns raised, their faces hidden by balaclavas. Tosh stayed by the door. Jazzer walked to the middle of the floor littered with discarded pink betting slips. On a television mounted above their heads, the runners and riders were under starter’s orders for the last race of the day at Newmarket. Die-hards gathered to watch their four-legged addiction play out. Hungry for fresh failure, the rest studied the racing pages tacked to the walls, convinced the evening meet at Uttoxeter would change their luck.
Behind the screen, the manager and a woman counted cash. Neither noticed the stranger until he fired into the ceiling, bringing down tiles in an explosion of noise and a cloud of dust. His second shot silenced the TV, the shell casing fell to the ground and he had their attention. He stood with his feet apart, surveying their fear through the eye-holes of his bally, the gun comfortably resting against his shoulder, fingers on the stock behind the trigger guard. His mate rotated his weapon in the general direction of everyone. Without the masks they would’ve been alarming, with them, the robbers were terrifying.
The voice wasn’t London. ‘Hands