Chapter Text
There are multiple things Will notices when he wakes up the next morning. The music coming from the radio he never switched on, for starters. The sunlight coming in through the windows is the second one, and the main reason why he sits up on the sofa and doesn't go back to sleep as well.
The third thing he notices is the smell of flour and then when he lets out a groan Marlo appears from his kitchen wearing a ridiculous apron.
"Eyyy, morning sunny!" he exclaims with his chipper Italian accent.
"Sunshine," Will mumbles, closing his eyes again and tapping behind himself to find the gun that's responsible for his sore back, "it's morning sunshine."
Damn people without a sense of privacy. Damn Marlo and his unnatural sleeping cycle.
"Sunshine, yes!" Marlo says, and then hits the table and makes the cutlery rattle.
Will stands up and holds his skull together because he feels it's going to explode. He thinks of going to the window and blacking out the place and getting some more shut-eye after popping one of his pills in but then he remembers, with another groan, that his toad-faced of a cousin flushed them down his toilet last night. Rummaged around like a nosy little cunt when he wasn't there.
"Fuuuuuuck."
He stumbles over his own table on the way to the bathroom and locks himself in but the voice of Chubby Checker through the radio speakers follows him there.
He emerges from it again thirty minutes later, wearing the same pair of underwear but with his hair under control and smelling clean. So that's an achievement.
"The fuck 'ave you done to my kitchen?"
He doesn't understand why Marlo insists on turning his whole place into a bloody pasta factory every Sunday as if he doesn't have a house of his own to ruin. His place is empty this hour of the day since the wife has taken that job over at the local grocery so he reckons he can't use her as an excuse anymore.
And yet.
He's here and singing.
"What's that?"
"A-ha!" Marlo turns round and positions himself behind the little contraption excited as a five-year-old with a new toy, and when he puts the dough in and starts turning that handle it comes rolling out as spaghetti, "for tonight! Not every day I turn forty-three, Willy!"
And Will, even having slept a total amount of two hours and without any clothes on and coughing up flour that's lingering in the air, can't help that laugh that escapes him.
"Good for you. Clean this shit up and don't ever fucking call me that again," he elbows through to open his fridge and as he bites the cap off his beer, the image of Reggie Kray standing in his kitchen comes back to him like a slap to the face, "where's Cobbie?"
Now that, that must be the most exceptional part of this morning so far. The little wanker's always hanging about at this hour, kicking him awake or using up the two minutes of hot water he only ever gets before midday.
"Out with the boss."
Will makes a face.
"Really?"
Marlo brushes a hand over his already flour-covered face and pants as he all but wrestles with the massive amount of dough he's managed to produce while William was sleeping.
"Yeah," the man shrugs, "he picked him up, saw it myself."
"I meant really, they've taken Cobbie along?" Will snorts, "didn't know we were running short on staff."
"Not they. Only Eddie."
That freezes Will on his spot, bottle halfway to his lips, and he stares as Marlo slams the dough one more time against his table, like he's not the slightest bit concerned about the words coming out of his own mouth.
Their Cobbie driving Eddie Richardson around town in his fancy Cadillac? Sounds like a very unlikely combination.
He thinks of the three of them getting into a car with the youngest Richardson for the first time in months to drag a man out of his bed last night and his hair stands on end.
"Right," he leans off the kitchen counter and brings his beer with him to pick out his less crumbled suit to put on, "I'm gonna go in early."
"What?!"
"I said I'm gonna go in early!"
He's not sure that's the song picking up momentum or Marlo actually turning up the volume but he shakes his head and has barely finished lacing up his shoes when he's bolting off.
It's cloudy but he still squints for two blocks before the ringing in his ears disappears completely.
He stops by Lola's first, finds her pulling up the blinds of the place as a painful reminder of the unheavenly hour. She switches on the coffee machine as he busies himself with the task of getting chairs down from tables and flattening out mantel clothes.
"Here you go, love," the middle-aged woman places the small cup of expresso on the counter and turns around to flip his sandwich on the grill.
"You're a lifesaver."
Only two minutes later he snatches the sandwich off that plate before she's even set it down next to his already empty cup of coffee. It's gone down his throat before he can even say cheese-and-bacon and he gets a shake of her head in clear reprimand.
"You boys, very tough and all but can't work an oven."
"Who's got time... honestly," he rolls his eyes theatrically and leans against the counter, crossing one foot over another and facing the entrance as she refills his cup, "thugs to threaten and beat up an' all that."
Lola shakes her head again and the second sandwich she sets on the plate has got a more generous filling. He makes a theatrical moan when he takes the first bite, mainly to make her smile, and he succeeds.
"Magic those hands, I tell ya."
"Helpless," Lola mumbles, and then the first proper customer of the day walks in and Will picks up his napkin and quickly wipes his lips, meaning to make himself scarce.
Except it's a copper at the door. The moment he looks up and locks eyes with the man, he knows his morning's just got real fucking shitty.
"Mornin' sir," he greets, with a smile and a nod. Lola is frozen on the other side of the counter as the guy takes two steps forward and glances at his little notepad with a master poker face.
"Would you happen to have a gun on you?" the copper asks matter-of-factly, spreading his legs in what he most definitely thinks is a threatening pose. One of his hands goes to rest over his baton and the other disappears behind his back and gets a pair of handcuffs.
Then another one walks in behind him, much younger, uniform looking like it was unpacked just this morning and darting his eyes around nervously.
"Don't think that's any of your business," Will retorts, sending another smile to the newbie and crossing his hands over his chest.
The senior officer returns the smile this time, his is strained and practised.
"Let me rephrase that. Hand your gun over and you'll save yourself a beatin'."
Will clenches his jaw at the sudden change of tone. Lola anxiously shifting her weight from foot to foot and clutching her hands over her stomach is the only reason why he reaches around his own back and gets his handgun, places it on the nearest table. He'd rather avoid any material damage to the place she's so carefully kept in tip-top condition.
"Am I being arrested?"
He gets no response. Older Copper only makes a nod to his junior and the kid comes to the front to take away his weapon. Will thinks of fleeing through the backdoor but shakes the thought away almost immediately. Would only add salt to the wound, that.
His first trip to Scotland Yard is way overdue, so he joins his hands behind his back and lets the handcuffs lock in nicely.
"We're taking you into custody under charges of assault and kidnapping," the older man starts reciting, standing closer and patting William's trousers around his pockets and waist. He turns his head to a very pale Lola and tries to reassure her with a wink.
"It's alright."
He doesn't think it works.
"You don't have to say anything, but it may harm your defence in court if you avoid answering during questioning."
"Charming," he scoffs, sending the younger trainee a playful smile as the other one continues his thorough search to try and find knives hidden under his socks. He hasn't got any.
"Anything you do say may be given in evidence."
"Yeah, I know. You're like a little parrot, ain't ya?"
At that, a firm hand clasps down on one of his own and yanks it upwards, sending a wave of pain up his arm at the awkward position and making the handcuffs close even more tightly around his forearms.
He bites down a groan.
"Walk on."
"Yessir."
"And keep your mouth shut."
Only half an hour later he finds himself inside a small dim-lit room, sitting at a table and staring up at none other than the infamous Nipper Read, who keeps smiling at that printed document in front of him like the cat that's got the cream.
"Don' be daft, son. Your Italian friend's been identified by our witness and your alibis don't match."
They've been at it for a good fifteen minutes now. He refused their lawyer naively thinking perhaps Eddie or Charlie would have someone through that door any minute now. So far, nobody's turned up.
He's starting to think nobody will, much to Read's credit.
"Just the one name. Don' be doing them any favours, you know they'd sooner have you in than risk their necks, you got a long life ahead of you, now, just give me the name."
Well, he's right about one thing, William thinks. He does have a long life ahead of him, minus all the hazardous situations he'll probably be putting himself under per the Richardson's orders, but selling up Cornell like that would surely shorten his lifespan immediately.
Might as well walk up to Charlie and fucking poke a finger up his ass.
He only hopes Marlo keeps that in mind as well.
Nipper shows him a self-satisfied grin but there's a glint of desperation in his eyes, in the tone of his voice, in the way his finger taps against the paper in front of him.
He doesn't have anything, and he's running against the clock.
Will keeps his hands crossed over his chest and his lips sealed shut. The way he sees it, he'll be going home once their 24 hours are up. No need to dig up his own grave.
The copper stares at him through the silence like he knows this and like he wants to do very un-copper-like things to him. There's a vein in his neck that looks like it's about to burst and he looks back down to his file and turns a page over.
"Donoghue. Another Donoghue. How's this work, then? You and Reggie Kray's little bitch, eh? Get together every other day, grab a bite to eat, give 'im a bit of info? Can't believe they haven't caught on yet."
Blackmail. God, he's desperate.
Their alabi has always been the same: Lola. It's a general rule. It's their ABC of police interrogation. She's probably already here in some other room giving a very detailed and false account of the dinner they never actually finished eating last night.
"Just tell me who else was there with you and we'll see if we can 'ave you out before you're thirty, how's that for a deal?"
He's starting to think Eddie got Cobbie out of the picture in anticipation, made him drive away someplace far where not even the fuzz would think of looking. Can't trust him to keep his mouth shut, apparently.
But they trust him?
"You're an accessory in an alleged murder, son, now I'm willing to turn a blind eye to that if it means gettin' this bastard behind bars. Did or did not George Cornell take Roy Findley away from his house last night at twelve sixteen in Hartington Road?"
The door to their right swings open, letting in the sound of office workers, phones ringing and typewriting.
"Sir."
"Not now."
"Sir..." the ginger at the door insists, Nipper is out of his chair immediately, to join her in a hushed conversation that can be very much heard from where he's sitting at the table, "sir, the charges have been dropped."
"Whaddaya mean the charges– she's already ID'd a suspect, she can't–"
"They're free to go, Chief's orders."
The words are final, and the copper-haired secretary sends an unfriendly look at William as Nipper stands frozen in place, hand over his mouth and clearly speechless as his colleague turns around and disappears without another word back into the corridor where she came from.
William hears the officer take a deep breath and sees him rub insistently at the stubble on his chin as if composing himself which, yes, is probably what's happening. It's the reason why he bites that smile down. Because he doesn't actually trust this man not to turn around and beat him senseless and make him admit to everything right here and now with a promise of a life sentence.
He's got an air about him that isn't that much different to what William's used to seeing. To what he's used to taking part in.
But it doesn't happen.
This is the other kind of business. The one they pay for, the one where nobody gets their hands dirty, no enforcement of their own laws down south. Nipper Read can't go find each and every corrupt cop in the police force and undo years of loyalty and fear.
So with one last murder glare sent William's way he's picking up his neatly arranged file and stomping away, short of smashing the door out of its hinges on his way out.
The same rookie officer who caught him at Lola's diner returns only ten minutes later with the key to his handcuffs. He also escorts him outside after a brief stop at the administration to get his belongings back.
The copper behind the desk slams his wallet down in front of him with a face like he's just swallowed a lemon.
William stares back, impassive.
"And my gun," he says.
The cop sniffs loudly, sends him a dirty look and looks back down to make himself busy with that bunch of papers. The younger lad that's parading behind him like he's a dog on a leash, keeping a firm hand between his shoulder blades, pushes him away.
"You keeping my gun?" William asks, conversationally, but the kid's not big on words. Keeps silent just as he ignored each and every one of Read's questions back there, "allow me to point out how ironic that is."
"Shut it," the kid bites out, strong Scottish accent and shoving him forward towards a different corridor from the one he was brought in through earlier. He almost collides against the other copper, the one who patted him down in search of guns he visibly wasn't hiding.
"Now he speaks," William mocks, "yeah, feels good, don't it? Bit of breaking the law every now and then."
"I'll take it from here," the older man interrupts.
"Sir."
"Thanks, laddie," Will sends a mischievous look behind him as the blond walks away without another word, "my, you train them proper, don't ya? He's like a wee lil pup, does he sit down when ya tell him to?"
That gets him an unceremonious shove towards the door.
"You have ten seconds to get out of my sight."
William counts to nine in his head, smiles as smugly as he can, and turns around with a careless stroll down the stairs.
It's a relatively quiet night at the pub, it being midweek and all. There are more empty tables than people occupying them, but still Ron sits at the one up front where the band plays only to amuse him. Teddy is at his side, surely too tipsy by now to remember this is still a public place, if the distance between his chair and Ron's is anything to go by.
And that hand massaging his upper thigh as well.
Barrie sits at the bar and downs his second pint as he watches, shaking his head but not inconvenienced enough to stand up and have a word with them. He knows better. Ron has had a drink too many and the club is dark enough that their customers can turn their heads away to it just as well.
He turns around on the stool to the bartender, she sends him a meaningful look.
"No can do," Barrie says, in his strong Scottish accent.
"Reggie wouldn't like it," she says, conversationally as she keeps wiping those dusty wine glasses lined up on the shelf behind her, "scares off customers, he says."
"Well, be my guest," Barry answers uninterested, "I sure ain't gonna go burst his bubble."
She snickers, amused, as the band plays their crescendo before getting a round of applause. Barrie reckons anyone who comes in here knows who owns the place anyway, and everyone who knows the Krays is smart enough not to be offended by the owner's choice of partnership.
Or smart enough not to make that offence known, at least.
"Outstanding, boys!" Ron exclaims, hands in the air in an approving gesture, "yeah, that's good. Play us another one!"
"Yeah, something less funeral-like eh?" Teddy adds, and he throws the olive in the air and catches it with his mouth and gets an approving nod from Ronnie, "you feel like showin' us some moves, Ron?"
"Nah," Ron blows out a puff of smoke and points at the main guitarist with his cigar, "how 'bout some Elvis?"
"Give us some Elvis!"
"Elvis it is," Ron crosses one leg over another and his free hand goes to keep Teddy's insistent fingers away, "I'm trying to enjoy the show 'ere."
He gets a pout in return and he pats the younger man's cheek softly. Then he leans over and whispers something in Teddy's ear that Barrie can only imagine. The band's already playing their rendition of Shoppin' Around.
It's at least one more hour until Reggie shows up, around a quarter to twelve. There are only five people left, scattered around in tables full of empty glasses and full ashtrays. He walks up to Barrie on the bar already checking his wristwatch and with a frown thrown over to the stage, still occupied by engaged musicians.
"What's this then?" he asks, hand around Frances' waist, who looks like she's about to fall asleep on her feet.
Barrie only shrugs and nods towards Ron.
"Alright boys, that's it for tonight!"
"Oi!" Ron exclaims almost immediately.
Teddy turns around and laughs. What he's laughing at, Barrie's got no idea.
"It's fuckin' midnight, mate," Reggie shakes his head and turns to Albie, who's just caught up with him, "Al, give them some extra bucks," he whispers, then he turns again to the band, "thanks, boys! Cheers!"
"Ye could've waited another half minute," Ron can be heard grunting from the table, as he puts out his cigar, "how rude. Come on, Teddy."
"For fuck's sake..." Reggie mumbles with another shake of his head just as Ron approaches, ignoring his brother's pointed look and turning to his sister-in-law instead.
"Frances, you look lovely!"
She only offers a smile and puts a strand of loose hair behind her ear.
"Yeah, you do," Ron nods, then he points to his back, "these guys were smashin' it, yeah. Gotta 'ave them again, I say, don't you think?"
Barrie stands up from his place at the question, straightening up.
"Sure thing, boss. Real good."
"Yeah, yeah, Teddy liked them."
"Why don't you head home, Ron?" Reggie asks gently, downing a small shot and turning to Frances to suggest the same thing. The thought dies in his mouth, however, at the sight of a very distressed young man stomping inside the place looking like someone else entirely.
It's the dim lights and the colour of his face and the black-tie outfit that has even his cousin failing up to recognize him at first.
The last two customers send him a dubious look as they walk past, noticing a bloody shirt under that jacket and recoiling just a bit as their stares are returned.
"The fuck you starin' at?" he bites back, only to have the middle-aged couple walk faster towards the exit. When he turns his head forward Ronnie Kray is decidedly closer than he was just a moment ago, "right then, let's get it out of the way, shall we?"
Defiantly he takes yet another step towards Ronald Kray, spreads his arms and holds his head high waiting for a punch that doesn't come.
"What the fuck are you– Reggie, what the fuck is he doin' 'ere?"
Reggie lets out a very deep sigh and takes a look around to make sure the place is empty. Then he turns to Frances.
"Why don't you go home and I catch up, hm? Barrie, go on, take her home."
"Reggie..."
"I won't be long, promise. Teddy, you can go too."
"But Ron–"
"Ron and I, have to take care of some business," Reggie sends a pointed look at Billy, who's possibly as inebriated as all of them put together, still on a stare-battle with Ronald like he's got a death wish, "I'm sure you can do without him for one night. Albie, why don't ya take Billy to the office?"
Albie takes a step closer only to be shoved aside by Ronald.
"Business? What fucking business?"
"He's bleeding," Frances adds from behind in a whisper, eyeing Billy carefully and getting a snort from him as he walks over to the closest table and snatches a half-full bottle of gin from the middle of it.
"This is paid for, right?"
He doesn't wait for an answer to start chugging it down like water. There's a small silence from the crowd as he does so.