(11th August 1988)
‘Did you really meet Reggie Kray?’
Danny Painter was renowned for rarely if ever smiling. He twitched his lips in approximation as he regarded his questioner. Ah, he thought. So this is the young nutter; the one who gets off on East End villains.
‘Yeah,’ he said politely, ‘I met him a couple of times.’
‘What was he like?’
‘Same as he probably is now, except not locked up.’
The nutter wasn’t deterred by Danny’s unforthcoming response. ‘That must have been awesome,’ he said. ‘Was it in London? Did you get to go in The Blind Beggar?’
Danny’s expression didn’t even flicker. ‘It was over twenty years ago. I could only have been your age. I can’t remember all the ins and outs.’
That wasn’t at all true. Danny had done a job for Reggie early in 1967. Part of his payoff was a week in the big city, which he’d saved until November. Reggie had put him up in a fancy hotel and left him safe in the hands of a young woman; one who looked very much like 1966’s face of the year, with the body to match. Make that very, very much like her. She’d actually been called “Zoe”, but readily answered to “Twigs”.
Ins and outs? There had been plenty of those; plenty of ‘em and they’d been unforgettable.
Danny’s lips twitched again, this time more authentically. He didn’t know what Reggie had said he’d do for the girl, but she’d bought into her role with gusto, spending every last minute with him, both sleeping and waking. The pound had just been devalued and the weather had been iffy, so they’d filled in a lot of time by staying in bed, but they did venture out occasionally. Out and about, Zoe seemed to know everyone in London. It had been a delight to be with her, even if her version of “doing the sights” only involved visiting pubs, bars and restaurants.
‘Surely you’d remember The Blind Beggar,’ the nutter persisted.
‘I’ve got a feeling it was still closed after the shooting. Nipper Read was after the twins big-time by then. I remember that much.’
‘Nipper Read? What . . .’
At that point Paddy O’Brien got to his feet and called the meeting to order. The nutter obediently shut up and, spared further interrogation, Danny took in the other men around the table, making mental notes as Paddy introduced everyone.
Paddy had been watching too much of The Godfather. Maybe he’d even been reading the book. This meeting had been his idea, in his words “an assembly of tutti capi”, designed to “bring us all closer together”. Danny reckoned Paddy fancied himself as capo di tutti capi. Maybe there were machine guns waiting in the car park, ready to deal with any objectors.
That didn’t seem too likely though. Paddy was capable of violence . . . and extreme violence at that . . . but he was a pacifist at heart. Perhaps it was his age; like Danny, he was pushing the big five-o, twice as old as everybody else in the room. And, talking about the room, it was hardly the place for a massacre. The venue was in a pretty village a couple of miles outside Keighley, in a jazzed-up manor house that usually catered for weddings, birthdays and funerals.
Funerals? Danny chuckled inwardly. Hmmm . . .
Danny had never been convinced anything would come out of the get-together, but the hundred per cent attendance could only be admired. Paddy had got every “crime boss” in their end of the Aire Valley to come. Then again, he’d sold it as “be there or miss out”, so it was hardly surprising. And if nothing else, they’d all get to put faces to names.
Paddy must have been on some management course. He had a whiteboard with an agenda on it, written in green felt pen. He’d also started to use phrases like “our big challenge”, “going forward” and “our common objectives”. It was a relief to see that the agenda was in plain English and that he’d used everyday business headings: Areas; New Products . . . things like that. They wouldn’t be leaving anything incriminating behind them in ghostly traces of ink.
Danny found the various exchanges interesting if not particularly useful. And it was reassuring to see the co-operation levels. Positioned as he was in Bingley, he normally only had contact with the two bosses in Shipley and one of the several in Keighley. It was good to know everyone else was bumping along, avoiding needless and expensive turf wars.
Last but one on the agenda, before A-O-B, was prostitution. Not that it was headed that way: the green letters read “Women’s Rights”. Prostitution wasn’t such a big deal this far out of Bradford, not nowadays, and Danny hadn’t much of an opinion on it either way. When it was his turn to give a bit of input he kept his face deadpan.
‘I’m all for women’s rights,’ he said. ‘Ask my ex-girlfriend.’
‘Which one?’ Paddy leered. ‘You’ve had a few, haven’t you?’
For once Danny allowed himself a genuine smile. He loved his wife but had been known to stray; not as often as his reputation would have it, granted, but he didn’t mind being considered a stud. ‘The last one set world records when it came to demands,’ he said, ‘but don’t tell the trouble and strife. It might give her ideas.’
For reasons of his own the boss from Frizinghall, Malky, waited for Any Other Business to raise an add-on question about drug dealing, a topic already covered in Operational Review.
‘Nobody mentioned it before,’ he began, ‘but I’m seeing a lot of new independents on my patch, all selling the same stuff at all the same prices. It has to be organized.’
‘I’ve noticed that,’ said one of the delegates from Shipley. ‘So I introduced a three strike rule. One strike and you get a slap. Two strikes and you’re in the canal. Nobody’s tried three strikes yet. I’m taking that as a good sign.’
‘Do you think it’s organized?’
‘Yeah, but only by a tosser; we soon scared them off.’
‘What about you, Mr Painter? What’s it looking like in Bingley?’
Danny shrugged. Drugs didn’t play a major part in his empire. He’d buy the odd consignment now and then because it was like printing his own money, but was only an occasional thing. Normally he just sat back and let the independents pay him tribute.
‘Can’t say I’ve noticed,’ he said, glancing at his watch.
Malky wasn’t letting go. ‘Does Sean Dwyer have any connection to you?’ he asked.
Surprised, Danny looked more closely at the Frizinghall delegate. ‘Dwyer’s a small-time fence who does a bit of loansharking. He’s not connected to me in any way.’
‘Are you sure? I’ve heard his name mentioned, and not in a small-time sort of way.’
‘He’s not connected and he’s not permitted to deal. What is it you think he’s dealing, anyway?’
‘H and C in bulk. Possibly a little LSD.’
Danny fought back the anger. He prided himself in knowing what went on in Bingley. If Dwyer had gone upscale he should have been told.
‘I’ll investigate and let you know,’ he assured Malky. ‘My bet is your problem’s from Manningham, not Bingley, but I’ll check it out.’
‘Trust me, Mr Painter. These guys aren’t from Manningham. You only have to look at them to tell.’
Two of the Asian delegates from Keighley scowled at that. Malky didn’t even notice.
‘Okay,’ said Danny, ‘I’ll check it out my end.’