The Debt Read online

  The Debt

  Roberta Kray

  Robinson (2009)

  * * *

  Rating: ★★★★☆

  Tags: Literature Fiction, Mystery; Thriller Suspense, Mystery, Crime Fiction

  Literature Fictionttt Mystery; Thriller Suspensettt Mysteryttt Crime Fictionttt

  After eighteen years inside, Johnny Frank is coming out of jail with just one thing on his mind, to kill the man who put him there. But his plans soon go dramatically awry. As his past returns to haunt him, a vicious murder and kidnap force him back on the streets of London. He could choose simply to disappear - if it weren't for Simone.

  Through her marriage to Reggie Kray, the author has a unique insight into the inner conflicts of a long-term prisoner, and just as Roberta's life was irrevocably changed by meeting Reg, so Simone's will never be the same again after she enters Johnny's dangerous and unpredictable universe.

  Praise for Roberta Kray:

  'Well into Martina Cole territory, Roberta Kray's first novel gets under the skin of the London underworld with no problem' - Independent

  'Action, intrigue and a character-driven plot are delivered in well-written style, sure to please any crime fiction fans' - Woman

  'You might expect a crime novel written by the widow of Reg Kray would be tough - and it is. Recommend this to fans of Ian Rankin' - Booklist

  'The Debt convinces on every page - not only about the gangster world but also as a portrait of a woman whose life has been changed by forces beyond her control' - Chicago Tribune

  From Publishers Weekly

  Fans of Dick Francis and Simon Kernick will relish British author Kray's fiction debut, a cynical, hard-edged suspense novel told in alternating chapters from the perspectives of the two main characters—London mobster Johnny Frank and Simone Buckley, the daughter-in-law of the man Johnny blames for his long jail sentence. Convicted for the murder of a partner-in-crime two decades earlier, Johnny emerges into the world bent on revenge against Jim Buckley, the man who snitched on him. Taking advantage of the informant's greed, Johnny arranges to be a temporary lodger in his intended victim's household, where his path crosses with the attractive but unhappy Simone. Despite her intelligence, Simone is trapped in a marriage to a faithless rake, whose financial crimes have put an end to her career as an accountant. Razor-sharp writing and excellent pacing elevate this effort beyond the standard vengeance thriller. Kray is the widow of Reggie Kray, who with his twin brother, Ronnie, was a well-known London underworld figure. (Apr.)

  Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

  From Booklist

  You might expect that a crime novel written by the widow of Reg Kray, one of England's most notorious gangland overlords, would be tough and brutal, and it is. After spending 18 years in prison for murder, Johnny Frank is free. And he has a mission: to get revenge against the man who put him behind bars. But first he intends to tear the man's life apart, very, very slowly. The author, who previously published a biography of her late husband, proves to be an adroit storyteller, and her fictional creations feel authentic--so much so that it's easy to imagine running into them should one take a wrong turn and land on Britain's meanest streets. It's hard to know, of course, how much of the story draws on real-life events, but that hardly matters. The book is what it is, and that's an uncompromising, grit-filled crime novel. Recommend this to fans of Ian Rankin, Ken Bruen, and David Lawrence. David Pitt

  Copyright © American Library Association. All rights reserved

  Roberta Kray was born in Southport in 1959. She worked in publishing and media research in London for fifteen years. In early 1996 she met Reg Kray and they married the following year. Her first book, A Man Apart, was a biography of her husband. She currently lives in Norfolk.

  Contents

  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

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in hardback by Constable,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2006

  This paperback edition published by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2006

  Copyright © Roberta Kray, 2005, 2006

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  The right of Roberta Kray to be identified as the author of this work has been identified by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84529-212-6

  ISBN-10: 1-84529-212-X

  eISBN: 978-1-78033-369-4

  Printed and bound in the EU

  7 9 10 8

  For Reg, who had so many stories left to tell . . .

  And with thanks to Karen Alexander, Janelle Posey and John Ledgard for their friendship and support

  Prologue

  Johnny

  So I’m smiling at the plump florid man who’s sitting across the table. It’s always a pleasure to see old friends. Time passes slowly inside, the hours dictated not by revolutions of the earth but by an unchanging routine, each week identical to the last, each year a groundhog repetition of the one before. So I’m staring intently, drinking in every detail; I’m making the most of this most welcome of visits. How long has it been since we last met? It must be over eighteen years.

  I’ve still not decided how exactly I should kill him.

  ‘How’s the family then? Dee’s okay, I hope? And those boys of yours? They must be all grown up by now.’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ the stout man replies too quickly.

  Perhaps a look of sly amusement creeps into my eyes but I’m careful to keep the voice genial. ‘Glad to hear it. You’re looking well too.’

  This, of course, is a lie. That Jim Buckley wishes he had never stepped across the threshold is patently clear. His red face has taken on a deeper shade of mauve and under his arms two widening stains of sweat expose his guilt. Never one to waste an opportunity, I press home the advantage. ‘So what do you say, mate? We’re only talking a couple of months. Shouldn’t put you out too much.’ I leave a friendly pause before dropping the bombshell. ‘And don’t forget – you owe me big time.’

  The implicit threat has the desired effect. As Buckley’s bowels cramp into dread, his distended stomach flinches against the table. I know what he’s thinking: Shit, this has been a mistake, a terrible shitting mistake. Of course he realized the moment he opened the envelope and saw the visiting order that he should stay away. No point tempting providence. But then he couldn’t live wit
h the uncertainty either. He had to know if he was in the frame.

  The word when it emerges is barely audible. ‘What?’

  I grant him a few more seconds of undiluted terror before starting to laugh. ‘All those drinks, mate, all those free meals at the club. I reckon you owe me some hospitality.’

  Jim’s left leg is dancing a nervous jig, his heel beating a brisk staccato rhythm against the floor. I can read him like a book. He can’t work out if I know. Do I? Don’t I? His mind’s spinning round like a waltzer, getting dizzier by the second. He’s starting to feel sick. But then logic kicks in and everything gradually slows. He considers that if I knew the truth he’d be dead by now, history, sleeping soundly with the little fishes. So as he’s still alive that must surely mean . . . His mouth stumbles eagerly towards a smile of relief.

  ‘Yeah,’ he eventually croaks.

  And who am I to disillusion him?

  ‘Of course it goes without saying, I’ll see you both right.’ I glance around the hall, gesturing for him to move closer as I lower my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘It’s all still there – you know what I mean. I just need somewhere to stay when I come out, somewhere private, somewhere I can keep my head down until . . .’

  I pause as Buckley’s scared piggy eyes slowly brighten into greed.

  The seconds tick by.

  Fear battles unsuccessfully with avarice. ‘How much?’ he eventually murmurs.

  ‘Five k.’ I force my mouth into a curl. I’m close enough now to smell his stinking breath, close enough to wrap my fingers round his neck – but there’s time enough for that. Inching back a fraction, I remove the temptation. ‘In return for some privacy, right? I don’t want the world and his dog to know where I am.’

  Now Buckley’s not the sharpest knife in the drawer but he’s not completely stupid either. He shifts uneasily in his seat, a frown slowly puckering his forehead while he considers this unexpected proposition.

  I sit back casually and fold my arms. I can sense his caution, can almost see it too, dripping like treacle through his treacherous mind. Silently, I wait. And believe me, if there’s one skill Johnny Frank possesses it’s patience. Never rush a sure bet. It takes a while, two minutes, maybe three, and I don’t say a word but finally he produces the questions I’ve been anticipating.

  ‘But why me? Why us? There must be—’

  I have to fight to suppress the grin. ‘Look,’ I interrupt quickly, shifting forward and placing a firm hand reassuringly over his, ‘I know we’ve had our differences but that’s all behind us now, isn’t it? It’s in the past. I need someone I can trust, someone I can rely on. Everything’s changed out there. I need some time, a bit of space while I make the . . . arrangements.’

  How often have I rehearsed this glib disingenuous response? On at least a thousand occasions, cursing, raving, pacing my cell with my brains in the balance. Now my right hand curls tightly into a fist. Fuck him. It takes an effort to keep my voice steady but I do – I have to.

  ‘It’s okay, I’ll understand if you . . . if you can’t, that’s fine. No hard feelings.’ I give a swift dismissive shrug. ‘Forget it.’

  From the expression on his face it’s clear there’s nothing Buckley wants more than to forget the past – that dreadful place he’s consigned to history. Nothing, perhaps, except for good hard cash. And the honeyed scent of money is wafting sweetly through the air. Things haven’t been going so well lately. He could make some lousy excuse and leave but he won’t. I know he won’t. He’s made the mental calculations and thinks he’s got control.

  Like a predatory snake he flicks out his tongue, moistening his lips. ‘A couple of months?’ he repeats tentatively.

  I nod. ‘Ten weeks max.’ Aware my face is under scrutiny, I keep its expression benign. I even smile again. Now there’s a genuine pleasure in the gesture, in the satisfaction of a job well done. The bastard’s about to take the bait. There’s no going back. This is the beginning of the end.

  He grunts. ‘I’ll think about it.’

  ‘Sure – but don’t take too long. I’m out in a fortnight.’

  Jim’s eyes dart around the room, unsure as to where to settle. His head is saying yes, of course it is, there’s all that lovely brass up for grabs, but his instinct is still whispering caution. And now he’s thinking – what? He’s thinking we were never mates, never, associates at best. He’s trying to justify what he did, realigning the past and twisting wrong back into right. I was always out of his league, smarter, richer – and a fuck sight more successful. Flash, that’s what he thinks I was, a smug self-satisfied git. And I can’t argue with that. I had everything he wanted. I was everything he wanted. And he knows the only thing we ever had in common was . . . well, that’s something he’d rather not dwell on; carnal knowledge of his wife is hardly the basis of an enduring friendship. Although he certainly got his own back. Eighteen years and counting.

  Which is a reason and a half for him to just walk away.

  But then there’s the money.

  His red face crunches into indecision. ‘Give me a couple of days. I’ll talk it over with Dee.’

  As if outmanoeuvred by a master of negotiation, I shrug and say: ‘Okay, make it ten but that’s my final offer. Take it or leave it.’

  He’s shocked. His eyebrows hit the roof. Ten? Fuck, that’s hardly a sum to be sneered at, not for a few weeks’ bed and board. I must be desperate. And if I’m offering ten then how much more can he get his hands on? Oh, he remembers the job all right: Hatton Garden, late eighties – a haul of diamonds, and not just any chunks of ice but the rare and famous pink ones too. And those sweet babies are very much in fashion . . .

  Buckley’s eyes gleam suddenly bright. This is an offer he can’t refuse. As if he’s doing me a favour, he sighs and says: ‘Okay. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

  I quickly nod before he can change his mind again. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’

  We shake hands.

  The bastard’s palms are clammy. Surreptitiously, I reach down and wipe my fingers along my thighs. There’s no such thing as something for nothing. Buckley should have learned that by now, but some people never learn – they go on making the same stupid mistakes over and over again.

  Thank fucking Christ.

  Chapter One

  Simone

  Now you don’t just wake up one morning and find yourself inadvertently married to a gambling, womanizing, convicted fraudster – well, not unless you’re a thirty-two-year-old accountant who’s had her eyes firmly closed for the past five years. So okay, I’ll put my hands up and say I’ve been a fool but that doesn’t mean I haven’t tried to make it work. And I doubt if Marc’s the worst spouse in the world even if his CV does read like an illustrative extract from The Smart Woman’s Guide to Husbands to Avoid.

  No, I’m sure there are deadlier partners out there. He has his good points: he’s generous, kind and indisputably sexy. On his good days he can even totter some way down the path towards love. But I guess the bottom line – and there’s really no getting away from it – is that Marc Buckley’s an out-and-out cheat.

  So it’s hardly a marriage made in heaven although I guess if nothing else it’s been an education, a useful lesson in the triumph of adversity over hope. And I’ll know not to make the same mistake again.

  I’m almost home now, walking up the gravel drive, approaching the house. Despite the less-than-happy reflections on my personal life I’m actually smiling, for the snow has started to fall again, drifting down in muffling clouds and transforming all suburbia into a sparkling paradise of white. My feet may be cold but it’s impossible to be downhearted in the light of so much beauty.

  That is, until I step inside.

  In the hallway I pause, senses alert, before carefully closing the door behind me. Such caution isn’t strictly necessary for above the rumpus of my in-laws, locked once again in gladiatorial combat, my entrance will be neither heard nor cared about. As I climb the stairs the snow tumble
s from my coat leaving a clear but rapidly melting trail of evidence.

  Their voices penetrate even to the third floor, Dee’s fierce and strident, Jim’s equally booming but more defensive.

  ‘I don’t fucking want him here!’

  ‘Well, you go and fucking tell him then!’

  This is a battle that’s been raging on and off for the last couple of weeks, a fight that’s already diminished the china and has now progressed to sturdier projectiles. Whether any territory has been conceded is impossible to judge.

  My money, as always, is on Dee.

  With a sigh I open the door to the self-contained flat at the top of the house. In an attempt to block out the noise, the TV is turned up extra loud. Marc is lounging on the sofa, feet on the coffee table, watching – or at least pretending to watch – the evening news. His eyes are actually focused on an indeterminate point somewhere to the right of the box. A thin stream of smoke rises from his cigarette. On the screen the aftermath of yet another but more distant war is being played out, full-volume death and desolation spilling straight into our living room.

  He glances up as if surprised to see me. ‘Hi, love. Are those two still at it?’

  ‘Full on.’

  ‘Shit. Why can’t they just ignore each other like any normal married couple?’

  Like us, he means, as if non-communication is some higher art form, an ideal state to be aspired to. I try not to snarl. And as he clearly isn’t going to wear out his legs by leaping up and welcoming me home with a beneficial cup of tea, I go to the kitchen and switch on the kettle myself. While I wait for it to boil I lean against the doorjamb and ask: ‘So who exactly is this Johnny guy?’

  Marc stubs out his cigarette and instantly lights another. ‘If you’re making a brew, I wouldn’t mind a refill.’

  Normally I’d tell him to get up off his arse and make it himself but tonight, desperate to know more about what’s going on downstairs, I choose the road of least resistance. ‘Okay.’ Sometimes I feel more like a mother than a wife, attempting to squeeze out through constant repetition, bribery or corruption one tiny piece of information from a recalcitrant infant. I ask again, casually: ‘So what about this guy?’