Blood Feud Read online

  Blood Feud

  Anna Smith

  First published in Great Britain in 2018 by

  Quercus Editions Ltd

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  An Hachette UK company

  Copyright © 2018 Anna Smith

  The moral right of Anna Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  EBOOK ISBN 978 1 78648 654 7

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercusbooks.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Also by Anna Smith

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Chapter Fifty

  Acknowledgements

  Anna Smith has been a journalist for over twenty years and is a former chief reporter for the Daily Record in Glasgow. She has covered wars across the world as well as major investigations and news stories from Dunblane to Kosovo to 9/11. Anna spends her time between Lanarkshire and Dingle in the west of Ireland, as well as in Spain to escape the British weather.

  Also by Anna Smith

  The Dead Won’t Sleep

  To Tell the Truth

  Screams in the Dark

  Betrayed

  A Cold Killing

  Rough Cut

  Kill Me Twice

  Death Trap

  The Hit

  For Mags, Eileen and Ann Frances,

  and some ridiculously good times.

  ‘The most effective way to do it,

  is to do it.’ Amelia Earhart

  Prologue

  Glasgow

  Mickey Casey wasn’t even on edge. He was that cocky. Untouchable, he thought he was – always did, even when they were kids and he was up to his arse in trouble. Frankie Martin looked across the table at his oldest friend, watching the way he preened himself, pushing back his slicked dark mane even though there wasn’t a single waxed-to-perfection hair out of place. That was Mickey – handsome bastard that he was. His impeccable midnight blue suit fitted his muscular frame like a second skin, the crisp white shirt and pale blue polka dot silk tie giving him the look of a successful city trader. Which in some ways he was, when you came to think of it. The markets went up, they went down, and if you were smart you could control whichever way they moved. Winner takes all. It didn’t matter whether you were a trader shifting shares in oil, or a gangster moving cocaine or heroin. The stakes were as high for both, and those with the biggest balls never, ever lost. The shallow graves were littered with the failures. And Mickey Casey always vowed he would never be one of them. He glanced at his gold Rolex watch, beckoned the waiter across and ordered a glass of red wine. Frankie declined. Just coffee, he told him.

  ‘What’s with the fucking coffee? This is a celebration.’

  ‘Too early yet for me, Mickey. I’ll wait till they go.’

  Frankie glanced over his shoulder through the window of the empty Italian restaurant in the West End of Glasgow, where the meet had been arranged. ‘They’ll be here shortly. I’m starving.’

  He picked up the menu and scanned it, trying to look as though he was engrossed, even though his mind was elsewhere.

  The waiter arrived and placed the glass of wine beside Mickey, who nodded thanks. He put the espresso next to Frankie, who looked up and blinked a thanks as the waiter backed away and disappeared into the kitchen. They sat for a moment saying nothing, listening to the rattle of pans in the kitchen as the staff prepared for the lunchtime rush of customers. The place felt gloomy with its empty tables and shadowy corners. Mickey looked relaxed. He’d told Frankie that this was a day they would talk about when they were old men – the day Knuckles Boyle, the cocaine and heroin king who controlled everything that moved from Manchester northwards, was coming to him to make a deal. To his turf, his town. That was how much clout Mickey had. That was how far they had come. Frankie knew different, but he hid his betrayal well. He’d always been good at that. But he wasn’t comfortable in the long silence, and he was glad when Mickey raised his glass and spoke.

  ‘To the Caseys,’ he said. ‘Top of the world. Nobody’s going to stop us now, mate.’

  Frankie clinked his coffee cup, and managed to pull a smile.

  ‘Aye. We’ve come a long way, Mickey.’

  Mickey’s eyes shone.

  ‘We have.’ He gazed beyond Frankie. ‘You know, Frankie, I’ve always felt that niggle of my da kind of watching me down the years since I took over. Like a ghost. Sometimes I could feel his anger, the way he tried to make me feel ashamed for going down this road. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yep,’ Frankie said. ‘It was a different world back then, Mickey. Your da couldn’t see the long game.’

  Mickey nodded, enthusiastic. ‘That’s what I mean. If we’d done things his way, we’d be rich all right. We’d have a few quid. But you have to speculate if you’re going to build your own empire. If we hadn’t started doing the coke and heroin, we’d have been steamrolled over by some of the other crews in Glasgow. We’d have been easy pickings – bounced right out of the game. My da just couldn’t see that. He wasn’t clever enough. I reckon now, if he’d lived to see this, if he could have seen how far I’ve taken us, that he would forgive me. He would understand.’

  Frankie nodded in agreement. And he did agree. Mickey was right. His old man’s ambition was to buy a few flats, maybe a string of pubs, and that would do them. But that would never be enough for Mickey. Money was power, and the more money you had the bigger you were. But Fr
ankie knew that nothing would ever be enough for Mickey.

  Mickey sipped his wine.

  ‘You know, mate, the business we’ve done with Knuckles Boyle over the years is what really gave us the base to build on. I’ll always be grateful to him for that – but we made him plenty of money too – let’s not forget that. But Knuckles, well, he’s just not top drawer, is he?’

  ‘It’s not how Knuckles would see it though.’ Frankie allowed himself a slight grin.

  ‘Of course not. Because he’s not that fucking smart. That’s why he knows the only thing to do is to come here and deal with me.’ Mickey leaned across. ‘Knuckles is coming here to me – to my turf – not me going to him, the way it used to be. He knows the score. And when he leaves here today, I want him to be happy and onside, but in no doubt that I’m the big player now and it’s me he has to make deals with if he wants to survive. I have all the power now.’

  Frankie nodded but said nothing. He felt the shudder of his mobile in his pocket and took it out. He glanced at the screen and put it back in his pocket.

  ‘Who’s that?’ Mickey asked.

  ‘Some bird. Meeting her later. Getting a bit too attached for my liking though.’

  Frankie could feel a little sting of sweat under his armpits and he shuffled his feet, took out a pack of cigarettes. He knew it was time.

  ‘I’m going out for a smoke, man, before they come. You coming out?’

  Mickey got to his feet.

  They went outside and stood in the doorway. He handed Mickey a cigarette and watched as he put it between his lips. Frankie held the lighter under it, glad there was no tremor in his hand, then lit his own. He took a long drag, holding the smoke in for a moment, his eyes scanning the street, watching for the car to arrive with Knuckles Boyle and his sidekicks. He wondered how many of them there would be. His mobile shuddered again in his jacket, but he didn’t need to take it out this time, because now he saw the blacked-out Range Rover coming through the traffic lights.

  ‘That’ll be them,’ Frankie said, jerking his head in the direction of the car. ‘You want to go inside?’

  Mickey shook his head, squared his shoulders.

  ‘We’ll wait here and meet them. This is my town.’

  They watched as the car slowly came towards the restaurant, as though the driver was trying to check it was the right place. Then the window behind the passenger seat slowly lowered. Frankie saw the gun barrel first and took a step out of the doorway – and the firing line. He glanced at Mickey and saw the shock in his face. Or had he suddenly spotted the betrayal? Whatever, it was too late. By the time Mickey saw what was happening, he’d already been hit, straight through his forehead, and he was buckling to the ground, his hand attempting to go into his jacket for his gun but his brain already dead. Then, as he lay on the ground, two more bullets pumped into his body, making it jerk. A crimson pool seeped out of his chest and all around him. All Frankie could hear as he dived to the ground was the screech of the wheels as the car sped away, and people in the street screaming as they ran for cover. He crawled over and knelt beside his best friend. He bit back his emotion. This was not how it was meant to be when they started out, when they dreamed of being top dogs. Now, as he cradled Mickey’s lifeless body, Frankie could hear the sirens in the distance. He should run, before the police came. But he couldn’t bring himself to leave Mickey. He braced himself as the police car raced towards them. He had to get his story straight.

  Chapter One

  Six days later

  The funeral was going at full pelt, and the bulk of the mourners were three sheets to the wind. Kerry gazed around the pub, packed to the rafters, as her Uncle Danny led the sing-song, his eyes puffy from crying, his thick jowls crimson from years of boozing, but his velvet voice sweet as she remembered.

  The room was silent as he sang about missing the hungry years, when people had nothing but each other, and how so much of that was lost along the way as they made their fortune.

  Kerry closed her eyes for a moment and listened to the old Neil Sedaka song, her mind drifting back to the days when she’d sat as a kid at the top of the stairs in a relative’s house, her knees hugged to her chest, while they belted out songs down in the living room. More often than not, there was a corpse in a coffin in the corner. They were second generation Irish, and they would sing about love and heartbreak, and missing the ould country, yearning to go home. Though none of them ever did.

  She opened her eyes and swallowed hard as she looked across the table at her mother, Maggie, staring into space, her cheeks wet with tears as Danny sang. Kerry watched as her mother nudged her sister, Auntie Pat.

  ‘I don’t miss them, Pat. I don’t miss the bloody hungry years. They were miserable as sin.’

  Kerry reached over and clasped her mother’s hand, feeling its warm softness as she held it tight. Maggie had buried her first-born child, Mickey, today, executed by rival gangs in some turf war she couldn’t comprehend. All she knew was that they took her only son. Her once lovely face was now etched with the pain of loss and heartache that she would carry to her grave. Kerry knew that in her mother’s heart she may not have missed the hungry years, the poverty, the struggling, but at least then they were all alive, her children around her, her husband by her side. The Caseys were top of the heap now, but they had paid a hefty price. I should have been here, Kerry said to herself. I should have been with you all these years, Mum. I should have come home.

  But it had been her mother who’d sent her away at fourteen, when her father died suddenly of a heart attack. Get out of all this shite, her mother had told her as she gathered her cases and accompanied her to Spain, where she was being sent to live with her aunt and uncle. At the time, Kerry had been heartbroken and bewildered as to why her mother was sending her away, when she’d just lost the father she adored, her hero dad who had promised he would give her the world if he could. But she’d suspected it was because her brother Mickey was now going to be taking over the family, and from what she could gather in the snatches of whispered conversation she had picked up, things were going to be a lot different. Mickey would take them in another direction that would make them rich and powerful and feared. You’re better than this, her mother had told Kerry as she’d wept on her shoulder when she’d left her that scorching morning on the Costa del Sol. It wasn’t the first time Kerry had been told by her mother that she was so precious to her. Many times she had spoken of how she and her dad had almost given up hope of having another child, after three miscarriages. Then Kerry arrived, she’d said, like a gift from God. She was the golden child. Mickey was always going to take over from her father, but Kerry was going to be different. You’ll make something of your life, she’d said. I know you will. And she had. Privately educated in an expensive English-speaking school, Kerry went on to study in London and gained a first class honours degree in law. The world where she’d grown up seemed a lifetime ago, and she would never be a part of that. She was home now, for her brother’s funeral – but for her mother’s sake, not Mickey’s. Kerry had never forgiven Mickey for what he had done to ruin their father’s dream of building a business where they would be respected and admired, instead of supping from the same trough as the drug-dealing filth he had despised and resisted. Kerry would be gone in the morning, and her mother knew that too.

  ‘I wish you weren’t going away tomorrow, Kerry,’ her mother said. ‘Could you not stay a while longer? We’ve hardly had any time together.’

  Kerry could see the sadness in her mother’s eyes. All those years they had spent apart while she lived in Spain, coming home only for school holidays or seeing her when she came to visit. So much time wasted. So often, Kerry had resented her mother for sending her away, even though she knew it was to keep her from what Mickey was doing to the organisation.

  ‘I know, Mum,’ she said. ‘I’d love to stay, but I have to get back to the case I’m working on. Once that’s finished, I promise I’ll come back for at least a month and we�
�ll do things together – you, me and Auntie Pat. We’ll go up north, maybe, or down to Ayrshire for a break.’ She squeezed her mother’s hand. ‘Remember when we used to go to Butlin’s when I was a kid? The laughs we had?’

  Her mother smiled for the first time today.

  ‘Oh, aye. And your dad would come down at the weekend and take us all for a slap-up feed out of the camp. We felt we’d escaped. Jesus!’ She sighed. ‘You know, Kerry, I blame myself sometimes – for you being so distant.’

  ‘I’m not distant, Mum. I just don’t live here.’

  ‘Oh, I know. But you’re different. With your education and stuff, your life is different from ours. You’re in a different world.’

  ‘But I’m still the same person deep down.’ Kerry glanced around. ‘This was my world. I loved Glasgow, my family and friends here. This is all I ever wanted. But it wasn’t to be, and maybe it was for the best that you sent me away, because I’ve done all right. I like what I do in my job.’

  ‘You know, if it hadn’t been for Mickey – God forgive me – your father would have made something to hand over to you. Something respectable. Something you could build on in his memory, to make him proud. But this . . .’ Maggie shook her head. ‘This is not what he wanted. All this time, I’ve had to take a back seat and let Mickey get on with the business, because I wouldn’t have known where to start. But he’s gone now. I just don’t know what will happen. I know I’m not up to it.’

  ‘But you’ve got Danny, Mum, and Frankie and Marty. All of them. They’re all loyal to you and to Dad.’

  ‘Yes. They’re loyal. But the Caseys are now a bunch of drug dealers. ’

  ‘I know, Mum.’ Kerry didn’t know what to say.

  Her mum looked at her. ‘What about you, Kerry? Would you ever think about coming into the business? I mean, I know you have another life, and maybe I’m just being a sentimental old woman, but, could you ever come back? Not to this, but make something different?’

  For the first time in her life, Kerry could see her mother vulnerable, weak, and it tore the heart from her. She was always so vibrant, so full of life and so driven, especially in the very early days when they had nothing, and her mother held it all together. But now she was getting older, reliant on others. Mickey would always have taken care of her, and she knew that, but with him gone now, there was no figurehead, no Casey to keep alive her father’s dream. There never would be. Kerry didn’t know what to say, because she couldn’t lie to her and make any promises that she knew she couldn’t keep even if she wanted to.