said.
Outside, it was just a normal morning, people heading for work or school, but in here... I wasn’t sure how much longer I could maintain this calm façade.
“Good, good. Tell him he needs to readjust his sights. For everyone’s good, okay? I’m just the peacekeeper here, trying to avert a war, you understand?”
I thought then of the look in Dean’s eye when he’d gone for Putin, the pure, unbridled animosity between the two. Was there a chance that Reuben was, in some perverse way, the good guy here?
I really didn’t know.
All I understood was that I was way out of my depth in all this.
“So tell me,” Reuben said now, “you think you have any sway over them? The Bailey Boys? You think you might be able to bang some sense into them?” A slight pause, then the two coppers laughed a little too hard at the ‘bang’.
I raised an eyebrow, waited.
“So how d’you know them? Give me a little background. Help make my job easier for me.”
It was my turn to pause, let the silence draw out. I tried to read his expression, but he was giving nothing away. I wasn’t sure how much to reveal. Whether explaining things would make clear how peripheral I was, or would simply draw me in deeper.
“I used to come here when I was little,” I said. “Family stuff. My parents were from this part of London, my grandparents, too. They all moved away before I was born, but we used to visit.”
“Old family friends?”
I nodded.
“My gran’s not well. She was talking about old friends down here. I said I’d come and see who was still around. That’s all.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jess,” I said. “Jess Taylor.”
It took a moment for him to make the connection, then his expression changed, the mask faltering just a little.
“Taylor?” he said. “You’re Stella’s kid?”
It wasn’t simply that he knew my mother’s name. It was the way he said it. You’re Stella’s kid?
That, more than anything up to that point, convinced me that there was a whole lot more to my family’s London history than I’d ever suspected.
§
The driver let us out by the station, but instead of heading inside, DI Glover led me a short way down to a busy street and then left to a small café where he ordered two coffees without asking.
We sat at the back, at a small, wobbly table. From the number of slightly shabby suits in here, this must be a popular spot to get away from the station, I guessed.
“Stella Conran. Married Phil Taylor, didn’t she? She always was one of the good ones, you know?”
I didn’t. It was clear there was so much I didn’t know. “What do you mean?” I asked him. The DI’s entire manner had changed since he’d worked out who I was.
He waved a hand, taking in the small interior of the café, the street outside, and by implication the whole East End of London. “This place,” he said. “It gets in your blood. It’s in your blood, even though you’ve never lived here. That’s just the way it is. You’re a Taylor, a Conran. It’s like being a Bailey or a Glover. It’s who you are, isn’t it, love?”
I still didn’t understand.
“All this,” he said. “Your folks, they decided to make a break. But it’s never that easy. It always follows you.”
“They’re dead.”
He nodded, not surprised. “I know. Sad news, when I heard that.”
“Were they...?”
“Involved?” He shrugged, dismissively. “No more than anyone is who’s grown up knocking about with the Bailey Boys. They were good people. Had standards, you know? Listen, I’m sorry about all this. Picking you up like that. Throwing my weight around. If I’d known who you were...”
I could hardly blame him. It seemed even I wasn’t so clear about who I was any more.
“I meant what I said about Dean, though,” he went on. “He’s a wild card. He’s trying to live in the past, but this is the 21st Century. The Iron Curtain’s history, and they’re all here now. Primakov, Salko and
Outside, it was just a normal morning, people heading for work or school, but in here... I wasn’t sure how much longer I could maintain this calm façade.
“Good, good. Tell him he needs to readjust his sights. For everyone’s good, okay? I’m just the peacekeeper here, trying to avert a war, you understand?”
I thought then of the look in Dean’s eye when he’d gone for Putin, the pure, unbridled animosity between the two. Was there a chance that Reuben was, in some perverse way, the good guy here?
I really didn’t know.
All I understood was that I was way out of my depth in all this.
“So tell me,” Reuben said now, “you think you have any sway over them? The Bailey Boys? You think you might be able to bang some sense into them?” A slight pause, then the two coppers laughed a little too hard at the ‘bang’.
I raised an eyebrow, waited.
“So how d’you know them? Give me a little background. Help make my job easier for me.”
It was my turn to pause, let the silence draw out. I tried to read his expression, but he was giving nothing away. I wasn’t sure how much to reveal. Whether explaining things would make clear how peripheral I was, or would simply draw me in deeper.
“I used to come here when I was little,” I said. “Family stuff. My parents were from this part of London, my grandparents, too. They all moved away before I was born, but we used to visit.”
“Old family friends?”
I nodded.
“My gran’s not well. She was talking about old friends down here. I said I’d come and see who was still around. That’s all.”
“What did you say your name was?”
“Jess,” I said. “Jess Taylor.”
It took a moment for him to make the connection, then his expression changed, the mask faltering just a little.
“Taylor?” he said. “You’re Stella’s kid?”
It wasn’t simply that he knew my mother’s name. It was the way he said it. You’re Stella’s kid?
That, more than anything up to that point, convinced me that there was a whole lot more to my family’s London history than I’d ever suspected.
§
The driver let us out by the station, but instead of heading inside, DI Glover led me a short way down to a busy street and then left to a small café where he ordered two coffees without asking.
We sat at the back, at a small, wobbly table. From the number of slightly shabby suits in here, this must be a popular spot to get away from the station, I guessed.
“Stella Conran. Married Phil Taylor, didn’t she? She always was one of the good ones, you know?”
I didn’t. It was clear there was so much I didn’t know. “What do you mean?” I asked him. The DI’s entire manner had changed since he’d worked out who I was.
He waved a hand, taking in the small interior of the café, the street outside, and by implication the whole East End of London. “This place,” he said. “It gets in your blood. It’s in your blood, even though you’ve never lived here. That’s just the way it is. You’re a Taylor, a Conran. It’s like being a Bailey or a Glover. It’s who you are, isn’t it, love?”
I still didn’t understand.
“All this,” he said. “Your folks, they decided to make a break. But it’s never that easy. It always follows you.”
“They’re dead.”
He nodded, not surprised. “I know. Sad news, when I heard that.”
“Were they...?”
“Involved?” He shrugged, dismissively. “No more than anyone is who’s grown up knocking about with the Bailey Boys. They were good people. Had standards, you know? Listen, I’m sorry about all this. Picking you up like that. Throwing my weight around. If I’d known who you were...”
I could hardly blame him. It seemed even I wasn’t so clear about who I was any more.
“I meant what I said about Dean, though,” he went on. “He’s a wild card. He’s trying to live in the past, but this is the 21st Century. The Iron Curtain’s history, and they’re all here now. Primakov, Salko and
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