Chapter 42

Gathered around the solid oak oval table, Pat D addresses his most senior members. Pat didn't like the idea of one of the crew thinking he was above the rest so he just called them members. The grandfather clock, standing in the corner with its pendulum swinging, was the only sound in the room. The uncomfortable silence, and eerie ticking from the clock, blanketed the air with an oppressive atmosphere. Looking at each other across the table, the members knew that when Pat was silenced in thought, something heavy was about to go down.

With intensity, he studies each members face in turn and begins to speak.

"The loss from the lab fire was immense. We lost nearly two million on product alone. Add on top of that the equipment, now a fine ash in a pile of rubble, and that is too much to ignore. Do any of you have any idea who or why we were hit?"

Searching the room for an answer, all members were silent.

"Well do you?" he asked raising his voice.

Their eyes, directed at the floor, indicated that not one of them had a clue.

"What the fuck do I pay you lot for? To make it easy for you, I know who, I just need to know why"

"How do you know who it was Paddy?" stutters the member directly to the left.

Slamming his fist into the desk, nose to nose with the stammering member, Pat spits

"Because I done the fucking homework that you should have done"

Knowing that anything he said to the Boss in return would likely make him angrier, the member, composing himself, lowered his head.

"The bloke from the off-licence across the street was kind enough to email me the CCTV footage. At 2.37am, it showed two Asians in cheap shiny suits walking away fast. Now, who do we know that is Asian and wears shitty knocked off suits?" he says sarcastically

"That bloke from Green Street area Boss" one of the members states

"It wasn't a question dick-head, of course it's him. I had a letter sent to him asking why but no reply has come back. To me, that is an admission of guilt. I offered him a truce years ago and it has been fine until now. What has changed, I don't know and I don't care, but there will be reprisals. I don't want an all-out gun battle. That will end up with, we kill one of them, and they kill two of ours. That will just bring too much attention. What I want is this. I want his business, as many of his buyers that you can find. They will change from Saim to me as their supplier. Any that are unwilling or talk about loyalty, then every shipment on their way to them, will not make it. Do you hear me?"

Every member seated nodded in agreement. Many of them had thought that Paddy had turned a little soft by letting Saim get too big. He was always considered firm but fair, but the fair had seemed to outweigh the firm over the last few years. Now, he had shown them that he was still in charge and nobody crosses the line.

It wouldn't be a hard job to gather the information on buyers that Saim had on his books. Most crews have ex-employees, especially delivery mules, who have scores to settle. These come in handy and Pat scooped them up as soon as they were available. Pat controlled his crew just like Governments, and like them, had spies all over the place. Each spy had his own job and reported any new info they come across, for which they were paid. Most of it was just useless rubbish, relayed just to get some cash, but every now and then, they were useful. This would be one of them times.

Whitechapel High Street was the location of the pub. Frequented by a variety of wannabe gangsters and lowlife's, the two members knew the person they wanted would be there and entered as if they owned the place. The sawdust covered floor and real ale in wooden barrels made the place feel like a real old world pub. With all the new posh bars and high-class pubs opening, with their no music policies and pansy people, there were only a couple of real places left for people in this line of work to feel welcomed. As with most pubs in East London, as soon as they stepped inside, every head turned and shot their best intimidation stare. They were used to this kind of welcome and it didn't faze them. Standing their ground they walked to the bar, ordered, and scoured the faces seated at the tables.

Seated, huddled over in the corner next to the toilets, was a small man with his head down. Avoiding eye contact and trying hard not to be noticed, he let out a squeal when two chairs were pulled up to the table and the members sat down. Shaking, his knees hit the underside of the table like a drummer hitting the bass drum. Slowly raising his gaze, just enough as not to look them directly in the eyes, he trembles,

"Can I help you gentlemen?"