Disobey. Jacqui Rose
PROLOGUE
At four in the morning the door of the Turkish restaurant in Greek Street was kicked open. Careering into the wall, it caused the glass to smash into tiny fragments on the tiled floor. Three men waving baseball bats charged in, smashing everything in their way.
The sound of the chairs being kicked over and the tables being thrown woke the sleeping proprietor, Sarp, who’d seen and caused enough trouble throughout his own life to not hesitate to rush downstairs, cosh in hand, to face whatever danger awaited him.
Although Sarp had just had his fifty-sixth birthday, with adrenaline racing round his body he stood tall, sounding like a man much younger than his years.
‘What the fucking hell?’ The sight of the three Chinese men standing in the middle of his vandalised restaurant made Sarp see red and unwisely, he threw his full weight behind a punch, landing it directly in the smallest of the three men’s face. The blood splattered across the room, patterning the whitewashed wall with a sea of tiny red dots.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the men easily grabbed hold of the overweight Sarp, pushing him down against the sharp metal side of the bar’s counter. He cried out as the steel ripped into his bulbous flesh. ‘What … what do you want?’
The cold stare of the men sent a chill of fear through him.
‘We’ve warned you before. We told you there were no second chances. None. This time you pay up.’
‘I ain’t got the sort of money you’re asking for. The business isn’t doing that well.’
‘I’m not interested in your problems. You’ve had long enough; I’m sure you wouldn’t want anything happening to your restaurant or want your clientele to be too afraid to come here. The money’s to make sure these things don’t happen. To keep you safe.’
Sarp snarled at the men; his lip curling up in hatred. ‘Ain’t no need for protection mate; those days are long gone. We look after ourselves round here or we look after our own. Either way, we don’t need the likes of you thinking yer China’s answer to the Krays.’
‘You’re a very foolish man. Don’t you understand we’ll get our money one way or another; either which you’ll end up paying. Don’t make it difficult for yourself.’
Sarp leaned forward, wincing at the pain in his torn flesh. ‘Ain’t no way in the world I’m giving my hard-earned money to the likes of you. You can’t just go around doing this. There are rules; laws against this kind of stuff.’
‘Really? You want to talk about rules – perhaps you should be speaking to Alfie Jennings then.’
‘What are you talking about? What’s he got to do with it?’
‘You need to ask him, but in the meantime …’ The Chinese man spoke with a sarcastic tone as a smirk began to pass across his face. He pulled a blade out of his pocket. With a quick movement, he slashed Sarp across the cheek, drawing a five-inch gash on his face. The largest of the men pushed past him, disappearing out of the main area and upstairs into the living quarters. A couple of minutes later he returned, dragging a screaming woman through by her hair. She cried out to the owner in Turkish, her eyes wide with terror.
Sarp shouted loudly, fear in his voice. ‘Leave her alone! Leave her alone! She ain’t got nothing to do with this.’ He paused, seeing the look of terror in her eyes as she shook with dread. He turned to face the men directly. His voice was breathless; his words staggered.
‘Okay … okay, what do you want me to do?’
‘You have forty-eight hours and then we’ll be back. If you don’t have our money then; kiss your wife goodbye.’
They were all there. All of them. The faces of London coming together, putting their differences aside to sort out the problems hitting the streets of Soho. But as Alfie Jennings sat staring hard at Vaughn Sadler, who in turn was staring hard at Johnny and Frankie Taylor who sat belligerently in the corner with their backs turned on Tommy Donaldson who was refusing to converse with Del Williams, putting their differences aside looked like it was going to prove more difficult than any of them could have imagined.
‘Bleedin’ hell, anyone would think this is a flipping wake from the looks on your faces.’ Lola Harding cackled out her words as she served them chipped mugs of over-milked tea in her café in Bateman Street. She smiled an almost-toothless grin but only received deep scowls in return, which only served to make her laugh harder.
‘Come on gentlemen, it ain’t that bad. Look at you all! Frankie, you look like a wet weekend in Margate, and Del, cop on to yourself, sitting hunched up in the corner like a crack-addicted little Jack Horner.’
She exploded into another raucous laugh, making Del scowl and mutter under his breath. ‘Do me a favour.’
Lola – who was now on a roll and enjoying every moment – continued, not being put off by anyone’s lack of enthusiasm towards her. She shuffled over to another of the London faces, poking him playfully in the chest. ‘Then you, Vaughn; Christ darling, you look like you’re about to shit out an elephant. Come on sweetheart, I expected better of you. What’s there to be glum about? Okay, okay, I know there’s a little bit of trouble bubbling about but nothing you can’t handle. Vaughn! Come on doll. Where you’ve got breath you’ve got a smile. Vaughnie baby, give old Lola a smile.’
Vaughn glared at Lola. He could feel his face turning red as he tried to keep down his temper. Although Lola’s antics hadn’t brought him out in a smile, it’d certainly brought the others out in one, or rather, it’d brought them out in smirks. And it pissed him off no end – especially as the person who was grinning the most was Alfie Jennings, who was sitting opposite him in the dingy café.
Being anywhere near Alfie pissed him off. They had history. Too much history. Alfie’s daughter, Emmie – Vaughn’s goddaughter – had come to live with him and his partner, Casey a while back, and for a short time life had been peaceful; he’d even go so far as saying it’d been idyllic, something he’d never experienced nor could have ever imagined before, but then this had happened. This shit which had hit Soho, smashing his peace like a big brass fucking band.
Vaughn sighed, rubbing his head as his hair flopped over his handsome sun-kissed face, giving him the appearance of a man twenty years his junior. Jesus, he wished he was back in his place in Surrey, tending his roses, making love to Casey or even listening to Emmie’s teenage strops. Anything. Anything, would be better than fucking this.
He’d left Soho life and all it entailed a long time ago, really only coming up for social gatherings and to catch up with old acquaintances and that had suited him well. It was on his terms. Vaughn had spent too many years looking over his shoulder with his life revolving around money and violence, and finally he thought it was over. But then he’d had the call. The code of honour call from another face. The call which meant no matter how much he didn’t want to be here, he really had no choice.
The call had come from Greg Bradley, an old face who still lived in Soho after seventy-eight years. Although Greg had retired a long time ago and now chose an early night and a drink of Ovaltine over any form of ructions, all his faculties were still intact and he was the ears and eyes of the place.
When Vaughn had picked up the call from Greg, he’d had no time for small talk, simply saying. ‘It’s Soho. We’re in trouble.’
In all his time as a face around London Vaughn had only had the call, once. A long time ago, when he’d temporarily settled in Spain, needing to hang low after a multi-million-pound heist, and then, like now, he’d