Christine Devon had told them of some of the places where she cleaned – their beauty, their affluence, their ease with which the owners left their valuables on display.
Billy knew that his mother had never touched anything, although Samuel had thought her crazy, and was none too subtle in his comments. Billy reflected on Samuel, four years younger than him. At fifteen, he had already been in a couple of gang fights: a group on one side hurling insults and brandishing knives; the other gang following suit. On one of the two occasions, one of the gang members had been killed. That was the time for all of those so-called brave men to vanish into the ether, the body left where it was.
And afterwards came the taunting, across the street, by graffiti, or by phone, about when revenge would be exacted. Billy had seen it as pointless; Samuel thought it made sense, even told his mother so once, and she had sent him to his room. Not that it did much good; the young man was physically stronger than the mother, stronger than anyone in the household. He did what he wanted, even though his mother, their mother, loved him.
‘What am I to do?’ his mother had said after he had walked out of the door the last time.
It had been Charisa who replied. ‘Don’t you remember Billy? He grew out of it. I’m sure Samuel will soon.’
Billy had known that Charisa was saying it for their mother’s sake. His involvement with the gang culture had been minor. He had not indulged in fighting, not even in their use of ganja. He had met up with one of the more harmless gangs once or twice and the most they did was to talk big.
And then Samuel had embraced the gangs, even after all that his family had experienced.
Billy had known that no good would come of Samuel’s death, and now the gang that he had cheated would be looking for someone in the Devon family to make up for their financial loss. They had made this clear one evening as he walked home from work. He had been close to where he was staying when a BMW had pulled up alongside him, a couple of gang members in the back, another two in the front. ‘We need to talk,’ the front passenger said.
Even though there were other people on the street, it was dark, and it had just started to rain. Billy was dragged into the back seat, face down in the crotch of one of the men, an unsavoury character by the name of Bruce Lee. Billy knew who he was, knew that he made himself out to be a martial arts expert, even though he carried too much weight and he did not have the gentle manner of his namesake. Another man was prodding Billy’s backside, making suggestive comments in an attempt to frighten him, and succeeding. ‘Almost as good an arse as your sister’s. If she doesn’t want to play, we can use you instead. What do you reckon, Billy Devon? You or your sister?’
He had protested, he knew he had, but a car full of gang members, him face down, one man pushing his head into his crotch, the other caressing his rear, did not help. He wanted to grab each and every one of them and to pummel them, but he could do nothing, except to act subserviently. ‘Whatever you say,’ he had replied instead.
After five minutes, the car had stopped on a derelict piece of land, and he was roughly pushed out onto the ground.
‘Billy Devon, your brother stole from us. We want it back.’
Billy was leaning on the car, his legs feeling unstable. ‘Did you kill him?’
‘We’re not here to answer questions, only to tell you what to do.’
‘What do you expect from me? I only work in a shop.’
‘That’s not our problem. Your brother stole twenty-two thousand pounds. We want it back, with interest.’
‘I never saw him with any money.’
‘Then he gave it to someone. Maybe his gang.’
‘Then why don’t you ask them?’
‘They have honoured their part of the agreement. Now it is time for you to do your part.’
‘They killed him for you?’
‘Why not? We want that money. And remember, each day the interest will increase by one thousand pounds. If we don’t have all the money in five days, we will grab your sister, and she can work off the interest.’
‘You bastards.’
‘Such language. Bruce Lee, teach him some manners.’
Roughly pulled from where he had been leaning, Billy was thrown to the ground. Bruce Lee then started putting his boot in, as well as leaning down to hit Billy’s body with a karate chop.
‘Okay, that’s enough,’ the leader said. ‘I don’t want Isaac Cook to see that he’s been roughed up.’
The gang members got into the car, pushing Billy Devon away. ‘Don’t forget. Five days, or we’ll pick up your sister,’ the front passenger said. Billy looked around him. In the distance, he could see the main road. He walked hesitantly, slowly regaining his strength. It was nine in the evening before he finally made it home. The others in the house saw him come in and head up to the bathroom.
***
Gwen Waverley was not pleased to be interviewed in her house by two police officers.
The Waverley house, fifty-five minutes from London, was in a pretty village where a few celebrities lived as well. The house, Victorian and substantial, occupied a position set well back from the road. Upon arriving at the front gate, Isaac had wound down the window of his car and spoken into the intercom located outside it. Once the formalities had been dealt with, the gate swung open. Two hundred yards ahead, the house came into view.
At the door,
