Full Circle

By John Morritt

Frank Smith looks forward to realising his dream of a comfortable life in sunny climes, after serving twenty years in prison for attempted murder.

His dream, however, shatters within days of becoming a free man, when he learns that duplicitous gangland boss Maurice Blair, now respectable businessman and head of a property development company, refuses to give him what is rightfully his.

As Frank unravels the web of deception spun by Blair, he returns to a life of crime, while he faces an uncertain future in a world that has moved on leaving him behind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Morritt
• Release date: Jul 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370749799

John Morritt

English by birth but after 30 years of daily grind, earning money for fat cats that don't really need any more money, John relocated to Thailand to teach English. His first novel, Black Cockles was published in 2010 but was only available in paperback until now. The sequel, Nine Lives, was published in 2012. His third novel, Vengeance was published in January 2014 and the sequel to Nine Lives in due for release in the summer of 2014.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Frank Smith took a deep breath; the air was somehow sweeter this side of the perimeter walls that surrounded Wandsworth Prison. It was all psychological, he knew. Inside, the dark, stone walls tainted the very air with hopelessness and desperation. The one hour a day in the yard to exercise was counterproductive. Instead of being grateful for the fresh air and feeling revitalised, it depressed, because he spent the time trudging round the yard, looking up at the walls that incarcerated him, wishing he was on the other side. During the school holidays, it was worse when children laughing as they played and the chimes of ice cream vans could be heard. Men with families stopped what they were doing to listen. The pain etched on their faces was something Frank would not miss or ever forget.

Being released from the prison that served as home for the last twenty years was something of an anti-climax. Nobody was there to meet him and there would be no yellow ribbon tied round an old oak tree, either. Frank was not sure how he felt. Indifferent, perhaps, having waited and longed for this day to finally arrive. He took another deep breath, turned up the collar of his grey overcoat, stuffed his flat cap onto his shaved head and set off down the road towards home; if indeed he still had one.

Though it was early April, winter, it seemed, had not given way to spring and there was a crisp chill in the air. The sky, a solid sheet of grey, did not threaten rain. Frank was grateful. The last thing he wanted on his first day of freedom was to be drenched. He contemplated taking a bus, or a taxi, but after being confined for so long, the last thing he needed was to immediately place himself in another claustrophobic environment. Despite his indifference at being released, he began to enjoy his first moments of being a free man. Casting one last look over his shoulder at Wandsworth Prison, Frank vowed that he would never again be detained at her majesty’s pleasure. Indeed, if promises made twenty-years ago were honoured, there would be no need to go back to a life of crime, or work again in any capacity. Frank smiled, lifted by the thought of spending the rest of his life in comfort; correction, luxury.

His first stop was at the bank, where he presented his credit and debit cards, both years out of date. He spent two hours filling in paperwork and trying to prove his identity. Eventually, the bank manager renewed his ATM/debit card and agreed to process his application for a new credit card. Frank was surprised to learn that his current account held over two thousand pounds and his savings account had not been touched by his ex-wife, Mandy, who wanted nothing from him, other than a clean break. She divorced him within two-years of his incarceration - the minimum separation time stipulated by law to qualify for a divorce. Frank did not blame her, though back then he did, and for a long time was resentful and angry. However, with a further eighteen years of imprisonment ahead without the slightest chance of early release, he could understand why Mandy wanted a divorce. All in all, he was in a good position financially, for now at least. In hindsight, he should have gone home first to collect more documentation, if indeed any of his belongings were still at the house his mother bequeath to him after she died when he was in his thirties.

Frank’s next stop was to visit his parole officer, Deborah, a tedious woman, whom he called, Debbie but only the once. She rebuked him, advising she could not abide the name Deb, Debbie or Debs, and insisted he used her proper name. Frank paid scant attention as she read out the terms of his parole, until she mentioned finding him a job. He put his hand up, smiled, and told her in no uncertain terms, ‘Not interested. Financially, I’m okay for now. Don’t forget, I’ve just done twenty years without a holiday, I’m well overdue one. I’d rather spend a couple of weeks enjoying life on the outside and adjusting before getting back work.’ He could hardly tell her the real reason.

In his youth, Frank worked as a junior car mechanic, until he gave it up for a life of crime. The money was easy and much better than a mechanic’s pay. He was also sure any skills he once possessed around a car engine would be useless on modern cars. Plus, at fifty-eight-years of age, he was sure his job prospects were limited. Even before he was sentenced, the job prospects for anyone over fifty were not good.

It was left that he would contact Deborah in a fortnight to seriously consider work options. Apart from her irritating personality, Frank knew she was just doing her job, and having a parole officer on his side was better than having one against him so he paid her lip service.

The white double-glazed windows on the house on Lancaster Street were dirty. The small patch of grass that passed as a front garden, enclosed behind a wrought iron fence, had been paved over at some point. Terracotta pots with small shrubs were placed randomly. They had an uncared for look about them. Apart from that, the house looked no different from the last time Frank stood in front of it twenty-years ago. He fumbled in his pocket, while wondering if the door lock had been changed. He pulled out a set of keys, selected the one for the front door and was surprised, yet relieved that it turned easily and the door swung inwards.

He cast his mind back, trying to remember how the hallway was decorated all those years ago. The walls were painted magnolia, whereas when he lived there, they were wallpapered. He seemed to recall blue stripes, but could not be sure, not that it mattered. Wooden boards replaced the once carpeted floor and looked to be a recent addition. The stairs to the left were still carpeted, but were now beige, complementing the walls. A full-length mirror adorned the wall opposite the stairs, and to the side, a small telephone table. All in all, it was tastefully decorated, but by whom? After he married Mandy, he never got around to adding her name as co-owner, which would legally prohibit it her from selling it without his signature. Was she still living there or had she rented it out?

Frank took a moment to appraise his image in the mirror. He unbuttoned his overcoat and viewed the plain black sweatshirt. He wore black for as long as he could remember to make him appear leaner and meaner. He had always been particular about his physique and maintained his fitness in the gym whilst inside. At six-foot and weighing in at a little under 200 pounds, he cut a fine figure for a man of his age. With his chiselled face, a boxer’s nose and a few crow’s feet around his hard, grey eyes, Frank was relatively wrinkle-free and could easily pass for a man in his forties; albeit late forties. By and large, the time spent in prison had been kind to him and he still had the, ‘don’t mess with me’ look. Someone tried once, and having left his opponent with a broken jaw and a punctured lung, no one else bothered him. Many of the inmates heard, or, knew of Frank Smith by reputation. They also knew he was well-connected in the criminal underworld and left him alone. That suited him just fine.

He turned his attention to the kitchen and was happy to see nothing had changed. It cost a small fortune to have it refitted shortly before his arrest and subsequent sentencing. Frank took a few paces and peered through the window above the sink. The small garden seemed to be as equally uncared for as the front. The cracked, concrete path leading to the end, where a gate between the 6ft fence led out to a dirty alleyway that ran the length of the terraced houses, was badly in need of weeding. Clearly, whoever lived there now had no interest in gardening.

Frank filled the kettle with water at the sink, flicked the switch on and took a mug from the cupboard above the sink. Tea, coffee and sugar were on the worktop in silver caddies. He took the strong sweet tea into the living room and nodded his approval at the tasteful and neutrally decorated room. The floors were also wooden and the walls painted the same magnolia as the hallway. A painting adorned each wall; all abstract prints, but they complimented the otherwise plain room, despite not being to his taste.

Frank took a gulp of tea and relished his first proper brew in years; prison tea was not something to get over excited about. It was best described as wet, warm and available, and there was no alternative apart from the other equally, wet, warm and available liquid that passed for coffee. As he placed the empty mug on a coaster on the wood and glass coffee table, he heard a key being inserted into the front door. He turned and faced the open living room door ready for the inevitable confrontation. He recalled his conversation with Deborah about the terms of his parole and reminded himself to not only keep cool, but keep his hands to himself.

A figure walked past the open door and headed towards the kitchen. The footsteps halted abruptly and for a few seconds there was a palpable silence. The footsteps retreated and a figure appeared in the doorway. Frank’s face showed no emotion as he stared at the young man in front of him and appraised him. He gauged him to be in his mid-twenties, about his height, maybe six-foot one, but whereas Frank was muscular and toned, the young man was as skinny as a whippet and looked effeminate; a look that he clearly worked on. His maroon skin-tight trousers accentuated his long, stick-thin legs. He wore a tight-fitting, white shirt with a maroon cravat, underneath a well-tailored black blazer.

The young man put a hand on his hip, pointed one of his slender fingers at Frank and said in an effeminate voice, ‘Lance never mentioned we were having a guest.’

Frank guessed he worked on his persona, too, to go with the image he wanted to portray. With little emotion, he replied, ‘A guest? I’m not a guest, son. This is my house. Who, the bloody hell are you?’

‘Peter McQueen. I live here with Lance.’

Frank walked towards him. ‘Okay, next question. Who the bloody hell is Lance?’

‘This is Lance’s house. I’m just the lodger. Who are you?’ Peter asked, with a terrified look on his face. His body shook.

‘Frank Smith, and haven’t we already established that this is my house not Lance’s, whoever the hell he is? Look, I’m not about to give you a thump so relax,’ Frank told him as he grabbed him by the arm, pulled him into the living room and sat him on the sofa.

Peter flinched.

‘Right, I want some answers.’

Peter nodded.

‘I want to know who Lance is and why he’s living in my house with you as his lodger. Got it?’

Peter nodded again.

Frank was unconvinced. He sensed Peter was not sure if he had the answers or not, and could tell he was worried what the consequences of not having the answers would be.

‘Lance and I work at the same theatre group.’

‘Lance, who? What’s his surname for Christ’s sake?’

‘Lance Sharpe. He lived here with his mother. She died a few years back and he wanted a lodger to earn a bit of extra money. I was living in a squalid flat in Leytonstone and the landlord was an absolute rogue. The place was falling down and the rent kept going up. I moved in here with Lance.’ Peter smiled, as if pleased that the information was enough to satisfy Frank. It was not.

‘That explains nothing, son. All you’ve told me is that you’re a lodger. How come Lance’s mother was living here?’ Frank asked, in a low, even tone, as he stared at Peter with cold, grey eyes.

‘I don’t know. Lance will be home soon so you can ask him. I really need to use the loo, would you mind if I leave you a moment, Mr. Smith?’

‘It’s Frank, and do what you like. It’s better than having a wet seat, isn’t it?’

‘Thank you, you’re a sweetie,’ Peter said, as he scooted off the chair and headed for the door.

‘Peter,’ Frank said in a menacing voice, which stopped him in his tracks. ‘If you ever call me sweetie again, I swear, I’ll knock your fucking block off.’

CHAPTER TWO

Maurice Blair swivelled his sumptuous leather chair a hundred and eighty degrees and stared at the view of London fifteen floors below. It never ceased to impress him, even though the location was not one of London’s most prestigious addresses, yet, it cost a fortune to rent. Despite this, it was a long way from his humble beginnings in a squalid, one room office, above a launderette in Newington by the Elephant and Castle.

The last two decades had been good for Maurice. In fact, life had been good to him. He rose through the ranks from a small-time crook to the head of Blair Enterprises, a property development company, though he clung onto his past businesses, mainly out of necessity and an insatiable greed for wealth. Maurice was, by his own admission, a compulsive, control freak. Giving up anything he had worked hard for was not in his nature. His diverse portfolio of businesses gave him plenty of scope to combine his legitimate business activities with those that was seen as, not so legitimate in the eyes of the law. To Maurice, business was business and that meant profit, regardless of its legality.

He was not academic by any means and as a result had not done well at school. It was not that he was inept; far from it. Maurice was quick-witted and always looked for a shortcut to success. After leaving school, he became involved with Connor Davis, a family friend and head of a notorious gang that ran protection rackets and controlled a large area south-east of the river. He ruled his manor with an iron fist. Connor also owned a string of bookies - a front to launder money. He gave Maurice a job because he owed his father a favour. And so his life of crime began.

Maurice was not only quick-witted; he possessed a sharp mind and was keen to learn. His manipulative nature and penchant for extreme violence soon became apparent, and within eight years, aged twenty-six, he blackmailed Connor’s solicitor into forging paperwork to transfer all Connor’s businesses into his name. During that period, Maurice ingratiated himself with all of Connor’s gang members to make sure that when everything was signed over to him, he would be accepted without question. Connor disappeared, never to be seen again. After so many years Maurice thought it unlikely he would be: the Thames was very deep in places.

When Maurice took control, he aggressively expanded the business and his territory by doubling the number of betting shops, adding three arcades to his portfolio and eased other gangs out of South London. It was not enough. Maurice wanted more. Twenty years prior, he had pulled off his biggest job ever, after two years of planning. The money propelled him to heights he could only ever dream of. He still owned the bookies, arcades and still extorted protection money from clubs, pubs and shop owners south of the river, but his main business was property development. By and large it was a legitimate business, insomuch as he mainly purchased brown-field sites at low prices, and either sold them on when prices increased, or built on them if the right planning permission was forthcoming. If it was a particularly prestigious acquisition, planning permission was usually granted, either by giving one or two influential planning committee members a bung, or resorting to blackmail or violence. Yes, business was good and nobody stood in Maurice Blair’s way.

His reminiscing was interrupted by a knock on his office door. He spun around in his chair to see David Nash, the head of Logistics walking towards him. Logistics was a fanciful title that covered a multitude of activities, but mainly moving immovable objects to get things done. For the most part, that meant people. Basically, Nash was an enforcer. He was tenacious, cunning and never failed to deliver. Maurice saw a lot of himself in him; in particular, Nash saw violence as a means to an end.

In truth, Nash was going nowhere. Maurice was wary of what he was capable of and one day would likely disappear, just as Connor Davis had.

‘You wanted to see me, boss?’ Nash asked.

‘I do. I’ve got a little job for you. An old mate of mine just got out of nick after a twenty-year stretch. I’d like you to put someone on him. Nothing obvious, just keep a watch on him. I’m pretty sure he’ll be coming to see me at some point and I want to know before he turns up.’

‘Just a tail then, you don’t want me take him out?’

‘I know you always relish the thought of some wet work, but not for now. He probably thinks I owe him a favour and will come calling,’ Maurice said, as he slid a folder across the desk.

Nash picked it up, opened it and looked at the photo of Frank Smith, along with his address. ‘He looks like he can handle himself,’ Nash offered.

‘That was twenty-odd-years ago. He’ll be about sixty now, nothing you need to worry about. That was his last known address but use your contacts and double check. Get one of the younger lads on the case, too. Give him something to cut his teeth on. It’s always good to have a succession plan for when you move up.’

‘I’ll get young Paul Lewis on the case. He and his team have been doing good work around the Waterloo area. It’ll be familiar ground to them,’ Nash told him.

Maurice shrugged and dismissed Nash with a wave of his hand. It was not an important job. If Frank turned up unannounced, it was of no great consequence. There was plenty of muscle in the building to sort him out if things turned nasty.

Years ago, Frank Smith would have been a different proposition altogether, but at sixty-years-old, he was not going to give him any problems.

CHAPTER THREE

Still nervous, Peter took the quiet time to observe Frank as they waited for Lance. He had no idea how old he was but despite his age, he held an air of menace about him. Though he grabbed him by the arm, Frank showed no real signs of aggression and spoke in an even and controlled tone. Perhaps it was that lack of emotion that made Peter edgy and he sensed that Frank knew this, as he detected a look of amusement flicker in his eyes once or twice. Time seemed to stand still; even the tick-tock of the clock seemed slow and extraordinarily loud in the awkward silence. Peter made tea for them, pulled his mobile from his pocket and scrolled though until he heard a key inserted in the lock.

Peter breathed a sigh of relief and said, ‘In here Lance, darling,’ He saw Frank cringe.

Lance walked into the living room, took one look at Frank and said, ‘Oh.’

‘This is Mr. Smith. He says this is his house,’ Peter informed him.

‘Lance Sharpe,’ he extended a hand to Frank.

Frank gave it a perfunctory shake.

‘So, you must be Uncle Frank, then?’

Frank was taken aback. ‘Uncle Frank? Care to explain that?’

‘My mother was Mary Sharpe. She married your brother, Paul. He left her when I was just a kid and I reverted to her maiden name. Dad’s dead now, by the way. He was an alcoholic, ended up homeless and died one winter. Can’t say we were that upset. Life with him was unbearable, always drunk and abusive, physically and mentally.

Eventually, Mum snapped and kicked him out. He came back from time-to-time, always after money for booze, but he soon got bored with that and stopped visiting. The next thing we knew, the police contacted us to identify his body.’

‘I was never close to my brother. He was a bastard. I’ve not seen him since I was eighteen. So, tell me, why are you living here?’

‘Mum was close to Auntie Mandy. I think it was her way of keeping tabs on Dad, for you. Perhaps she wanted the two of you to put aside your differences and be a normal family. Of course, that was never going to happen but Mum and auntie were good friends. We were struggling to make ends meet after Dad left. By the time the rent and bills were paid, there was barely enough left to buy food. When Auntie Mandy moved out, she told Mum we could live here rent free. It was a lifeline. Anyway, when Auntie Mandy died, we continued to live here.’

‘Wait, you’re telling me Mandy’s dead!’

‘Yes. Must have been about… oh, I don’t know, seventeen, maybe eighteen years ago. I seem to recall she was involved in a car accident or something. I’m sorry, if that’s a bit of a shock, Uncle Frank. I assumed you knew.’

‘No, not really a shock, more of a surprise. I just assumed she was alive and living elsewhere. Carry on, and drop the uncle, will you. Frank is fine.’

Lance nodded and continued. ‘Well, that’s about it really. Mum died quite suddenly a couple of years back and Peter moved in to help with the bills. To be honest, it gets a bit lonely in a big house all by myself.’

‘Sounds like everyone’s dead, which as my nephew, means you’re probably the only family member left. I guess at some point in the future, this house will be yours; I’m not getting any younger.’

‘Your room hasn’t been touched. Mum said one day you’d turn up, and to leave your room alone. It’s been given a lick of paint and the carpets replaced, but all your stuff‘s still there. So now I’m your lodger.’

Frank eyed Lance up and down and judged they must be about the same height, but whereas Frank was muscular, Lance was slight to medium build.

He studied his face and could see the family resemblance. He had grey eyes and a prominent nose, although Lance’s showed no signs of ever being broken and his hair was the same light-brown colour his had been when he was his age.

‘Tell me, are you and Peter faggots?’

He heard Peter gasp and turned to see him put a hand over his mouth.

Lance giggled. ‘You can’t use words like that Uncle Frank! The world has gone PC now. We use words like gay, or homosexual, if you must, but faggot is verging on homophobic.’

Frank sneered. ‘What the hell is PC? But you didn’t answer the question. Are you two queers?’

‘PC means, politically correct, and no, we’re not. We are just housemates and nothing more,’ Lance replied.

‘Okay. So, you’ve got girlfriends?’ Frank pressed, not convinced.

‘I’ve had girlfriends; I’m between relationships right now. Peter swings both ways, don’t you, darling?’ Lance said and looked at him.

Peter blushed.

‘I don’t care either way. It’s your life and you do what you like. I just want to know who I’m going to be living with. So, let’s talk rent. What do you pay, Peter?’

‘Five-hundred a month.’

‘Five-hundred, sounds like a bargain. Even though I’ve been away, I know that’s cheap. Add on fifty percent.’ Frank saw Lance and Peter were both about to protest; he put his