the car into reverse, and aimed for the middle of the road.
Spencer pulled out his gun and let loose. The rear
window shattered, the car slewed to one side and smashed into the front door of
the house nearest to us. We waited for Stern to emerge but, apart from the
engine racing in neutral, and exhaust pouring into the night there was no other
action.
Spencer walked up to the car door with his gun beaded
on where Stern would exit. He reached the car and looked in. He turned round to
look at me and drew his hand across his throat. It was all I needed to know and
we left as Mrs Stern bore down on the car in hysterics.
The next morning I received a call from Giles. He was
verging on apoplectic as he screamed down the phone. I let him rant and then
hung up. Ten minutes later the boss phoned and asked what the hell was going
on. I told him what had happened and why. He asked me to wait by the phone.
Half an hour later a car turned up outside the office
and one of the boss’s bears hustled me into the back seat. We headed north to a
small hotel in the village of Pangbourne on Thames . I was shown to a room at the back of the hotel and
told to wait.
Ten minutes rolled by before the boss walked in.
With two bears in tow, he walked up to me and,
knuckleduster in hand, cracked open my chin. I went down like a lump of clay
and the bears played football with me for five minutes.
‘Stop,’ came the boss’s voice.
The football stopped and I was dragged back onto a
chair.
‘Giles is out. You are in. The whole of London is
yours but pull another trick like that without my permission and you’ll join
Karl Marx up at Highgate Cemetery .’
With this he left and, with three busted ribs, a
snapped wrist and a busted jaw I took a taxi back to London -
stopping off at Gerry the Fix’s gaff for some emergency medical repairs.
How’s the clock? Eleven
thirty nine and four seconds.
So there I was kingpin in London . Top of
the tree and not yet thirty. I took to the new job with a ruthless streak that
earned me the nickname ‘the bastard’. Unoriginal but accurate.
I was now earning more in a week than some of my old
school friends would earn in a year. I kept Spencer as my number two, split London into
five areas – north, south, east, west and the city - and put a body in place
for each. I drove the organisation hard and turned it from an opportunistic,
street-fighting mob into a sophisticated business. We embraced technology and
the financial markets and turned from petty loan sharking to money, drugs and
sex.
I lost four of my best men in early 1991 to a hit and
run by a gang who came up from the south west with ambitions to knock me over.
We repaid the favour by wiping out the entire gang. Most people will have heard
of it. We crashed a turboprop with thirty people on board as it took off from Bristol airport. Sabotage was suspected but never proven.
In the summer of 1993 a money laundering scheme
that had doubled our income in the previous six months went tits up in a bad
way. The financial authorities sent in the heavy mob and they were the Andrews
Liver Salts to our digestion. I lost six of my best men to Wormwood Scrubs for
sentences ranging from three to eight years. I escaped by the skin of my teeth
but my card was marked.
By now the police were wise to us in a big way but I
was careful to give them little reason to talk to me. London was now
over three quarters of the total income of the group and I was pushing to take
control of the rest of England . I reckoned we could triple our income if I had the
steering wheel.
Of course you can see what’s coming. Sadly so could
the boss. I was no longer a valued asset. I was becoming a serious risk to his
command.
One sunny Tuesday a blue Ford Escort parked outside my
townhouse in Chelsea at five in the morning and, as I left the front door
two hours later, it exploded - taking out half a block of London ’s most
expensive real estate.
I should have died but, as I
Spencer pulled out his gun and let loose. The rear
window shattered, the car slewed to one side and smashed into the front door of
the house nearest to us. We waited for Stern to emerge but, apart from the
engine racing in neutral, and exhaust pouring into the night there was no other
action.
Spencer walked up to the car door with his gun beaded
on where Stern would exit. He reached the car and looked in. He turned round to
look at me and drew his hand across his throat. It was all I needed to know and
we left as Mrs Stern bore down on the car in hysterics.
The next morning I received a call from Giles. He was
verging on apoplectic as he screamed down the phone. I let him rant and then
hung up. Ten minutes later the boss phoned and asked what the hell was going
on. I told him what had happened and why. He asked me to wait by the phone.
Half an hour later a car turned up outside the office
and one of the boss’s bears hustled me into the back seat. We headed north to a
small hotel in the village of Pangbourne on Thames . I was shown to a room at the back of the hotel and
told to wait.
Ten minutes rolled by before the boss walked in.
With two bears in tow, he walked up to me and,
knuckleduster in hand, cracked open my chin. I went down like a lump of clay
and the bears played football with me for five minutes.
‘Stop,’ came the boss’s voice.
The football stopped and I was dragged back onto a
chair.
‘Giles is out. You are in. The whole of London is
yours but pull another trick like that without my permission and you’ll join
Karl Marx up at Highgate Cemetery .’
With this he left and, with three busted ribs, a
snapped wrist and a busted jaw I took a taxi back to London -
stopping off at Gerry the Fix’s gaff for some emergency medical repairs.
How’s the clock? Eleven
thirty nine and four seconds.
So there I was kingpin in London . Top of
the tree and not yet thirty. I took to the new job with a ruthless streak that
earned me the nickname ‘the bastard’. Unoriginal but accurate.
I was now earning more in a week than some of my old
school friends would earn in a year. I kept Spencer as my number two, split London into
five areas – north, south, east, west and the city - and put a body in place
for each. I drove the organisation hard and turned it from an opportunistic,
street-fighting mob into a sophisticated business. We embraced technology and
the financial markets and turned from petty loan sharking to money, drugs and
sex.
I lost four of my best men in early 1991 to a hit and
run by a gang who came up from the south west with ambitions to knock me over.
We repaid the favour by wiping out the entire gang. Most people will have heard
of it. We crashed a turboprop with thirty people on board as it took off from Bristol airport. Sabotage was suspected but never proven.
In the summer of 1993 a money laundering scheme
that had doubled our income in the previous six months went tits up in a bad
way. The financial authorities sent in the heavy mob and they were the Andrews
Liver Salts to our digestion. I lost six of my best men to Wormwood Scrubs for
sentences ranging from three to eight years. I escaped by the skin of my teeth
but my card was marked.
By now the police were wise to us in a big way but I
was careful to give them little reason to talk to me. London was now
over three quarters of the total income of the group and I was pushing to take
control of the rest of England . I reckoned we could triple our income if I had the
steering wheel.
Of course you can see what’s coming. Sadly so could
the boss. I was no longer a valued asset. I was becoming a serious risk to his
command.
One sunny Tuesday a blue Ford Escort parked outside my
townhouse in Chelsea at five in the morning and, as I left the front door
two hours later, it exploded - taking out half a block of London ’s most
expensive real estate.
I should have died but, as I
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