Prestons are? Including Johnny, right?’
‘Well yes, but that doesn’t mean that I haven’t got a few leads on the go,’ Geary said, licking his lips in anticipation of what sort of Christmas bonus he might be getting.
‘And what about that poor bloke who was murdered? Does your mob still think I had something to do with it? Just because it happened near my club?’
‘Well, I would be lying if I said they didn’t still see you as a suspect, Vinny, but to be honest they are concentrating more at the moment on finding the bloke who was with Dave Phillips at the time of the attack.’
‘Perhaps yous boys in blue have been barking up the wrong tree all along then, George? Don’t you think it’s strange that whoever was with the deceased did a runner? Perhaps that’s your murderer?’ Vinny suggested, handing over a wad of notes.
When Geary began counting the money, Vinny smirked. ‘There’s a fifty on top of your usual as a Christmas drink, George. You find out where those Prestons are for me and there’ll be an even bigger drink in it for you.’
George Geary was not amused. He had put his neck on the line sniffing around for snippets of information to throw Vinny’s way, yet all he was being given for his trouble was a measly fifty quid. He wasn’t stupid. He had spoken to a few of his colleagues over in South London.
When Vinny tried to shake his hand, George snatched it away. ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Butler. Fifty sovs! Is that it? Do you not think I know that Dave Phillips and Johnny Preston were partners in crime, eh? What do you take me for?’
Vinny chuckled. ‘A bent chief inspector.’
‘Don’t fuck with me, Vinny, because I can have you banged-up for murder at the drop of a hat,’ George said, pointing a fat finger in Vinny’s face.
Realizing that his joke had been a bad one, Vinny apologized immediately. He also dug his hand back into his pocket and handed Geary another hundred pounds. ‘Look, I don’t want to fall out with you, George, but I swear I know nothing about the murder of Dave Phillips, OK?’
‘So, why do you want me to find Johnny Preston then?’
Vinny sighed, put on the most innocent expression he could muster, and stared George Geary straight in the eyes. ‘Because my father has impregnated Preston’s sister, Judy, and she has done a fucking runner. Would you not want to know where your future brother or sister would be living?’
Geary put the hundred pounds in his pocket, then held his right hand out to Vinny. ‘I’m sorry, boy. I’ll do my best to find them for you, OK? I’d best go now before my wife wonders where I’ve got to. Merry Christmas.’
Vinny got out of the chief inspector’s car and walked back to his own. Karen’s bombshell earlier had left him in a bit of a daze, and he really didn’t know if he was coming or bloody going.
Thrilled that the jukebox had some songs on it by their favourite band, The Who, Michael and Kevin put on ‘I Can’t Explain’, ‘Anyway, Anyhow, Anywhere’, and ‘My Generation’.
‘Excuse me. Do you think you can turn it up a bit?’ Michael asked Mary.
‘I’ll turn it up a touch, but I can’t have it too loud because it’s not fair on the other customers,’ Mary replied, walking over to the jukebox.
‘Bleedin’ racket is giving me a headache. Don’t be turning it up no louder just because the murderer’s brother has asked you to,’ Mad Freda shouted out.
‘Who you calling a murderer? Michael’s brothers are good lads,’ Kevin said, sticking up for his best pal.
‘Who rattled your cage? You little black bastard,’ Freda spat back.
Michael grabbed Kevin by the sleeve of his parka. ‘Come on, mate, let’s go. Everyone knows that Freda is off her head, so there’s no point arguing with a bigoted nutjob. It’s like talking to a brick wall.’
Albie Butler was not in the best of moods. The doctors had told him he could be discharged before Christmas if he had somebody who could care for him until the plaster was taken off his legs. Trouble was, he couldn’t find anyone who could do so. Even his own brother had refused his pleas for help. Bert had made the excuse that his wife was ill.
Knowing that Queenie was his last chance of getting out of the hellhole of a hospital before Christmas, Albie decided to swallow his pride and call her.
‘What do you fucking want?’ Queenie hissed down the receiver.
‘I need a favour, love. The doctors said I can leave hospital if I’ve got somewhere to stay and a bit of help. Now, I know it’s over between us, but it won’t be for long, Queenie. As soon as I’m up and about again, I’ll find meself a little bedsit or something. Please help me, even if it’s only for old time’s sake?’
Furious by the cheek of the untrustworthy waste of space, Queenie gave her deceitful husband what for. ‘For all I care you can go and sleep under the arches with the rest of the fucking tramps. I will never allow you to darken my doorstep again, you dirty old toad. You’re dead as far as me and my sons are concerned. Even little Brenda don’t ask about you no more. I hope you rot in that hospital, and I pray you get bedbugs and sores as well. I’m hanging up now. Happy Christmas, you old cuntbag.’
When the line went dead and the nurse wheeled the phone away, Albie couldn’t stop the tears running down his cheeks. He didn’t want to spend his Christmas in bloody hospital. Now his family had disowned him, he had no visitors at all, and couldn’t even get somebody to sneak him in a bottle of brandy.
Old Mr Perry opened one eye. He had been pretending to be asleep, but he had heard Albie ask Queenie if he could move back in with her. It was now time for one of his little sing-songs. ‘Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do. I’m half crazy all for the love of you.’
Unable to take any more of Mr Perry, or life in general, Albie put his hands together and said a little prayer. ‘Just let me croak it, God. Please, just let me fucking die, so I can get some bastard peace.’
Absolutely seething over what they’d just heard, Queenie and Vivian marched into the café like two bulls in a china shop.
‘See you, you fucking old cow. I have just about had enough of you slandering my family. Who do you think you are, eh? My boys are good boys. And how dare you call Kevin a black bastard, you bigoted old hag,’ Queenie yelled, her face dangerously close to Freda’s.
Pushing her dinner plate away, Freda stood up. She was a stout woman with more than a bit of meat on her, whereas Queenie and Vivian were skinny as rakes. ‘I ain’t frightened of you, you pair of old dragons. Ruined my beloved Whitechapel, you and that scum you raised have.’
When Queenie and Vivian both lunged at Freda, Mary screamed in fright.
‘What the hell is going on?’ Donald asked, running out of the kitchen with a tea towel in his hand.
‘Oh my God, Donald. Do something,’ Mary shrieked hysterically, when a cup and saucer got smashed in the fracas.
Sturdy or not, Freda was no match for Queenie and Vivian, and was already lying on the floor with her legs open, showing her bloomers.
Being Christmas Eve afternoon, the café was empty now, so Donald had no alternative other than to break up the three brawling women himself.
Nancy and Christopher had both heard the commotion and, petrified, they ran down the stairs. ‘What’s happening, Mummy?’ Nancy screamed, when she saw Vivian hit her father with her umbrella.
‘Get out,’ Donald shouted, as he grabbed Vivian’s wrists to stop her from hitting him again.
Thinking that his father might get stabbed and die like the man outside the snooker club, Christopher put his hands over his eyes. ‘Leave my dad alone,’ he screamed.
When Freda suddenly leapt up and grabbed Queenie around the throat, Mary