Madness drove Davy towards his goal. With simplicity, he saw the whole picture. The Red Mafia leader controlled an army of thugs who managed protection rackets along with drugs and prostitution. Aware this was a suicide mission, he prepared for war.
His hate grew into an obsession, and Tracey's information helped. Each waking hour he watched and noted their every move. His matted black hair and straggly beard; dirty, smelly clothes enabled him to become another homeless person. People crossed the road as he staggered from street to street, clutching a wine bottle. Cold, wet nights spent in the local shop doorways paved the way. Weeks passed as he began to understand when and where the Red Mafia operated, who they spoke to and who paid protection. He knew them better than anyone did. For fun, he gave the collectors nicknames: Baldy, Lofty, Paleface, the Weed, and Freaky. Often, they had seen Davy lurching along the street. His ruse worked better than he could ever have imagined. He memorised who, what, where and when. Their operating routines and their strict timing made them vulnerable. The boss and the workers were easy to name. Porky the Pig appeared to control the protection racket in London. Smoothy was the accountant and seemed to have authority. The collectors followed orders, "thinking" was above their pay grade.
***
Police Commander Ronald Harman-Smith, head of an elite squad, spoke to his sergeants. "At great expense to the taxpayer, I've arranged a short-term lease on two flats on the opposite side of the street from where the Red Mafia operates. It's satisfactory, and your role is surveillance. I know it's unexciting, but I need to know what goes on in both those houses. Remember, we are a secret organisation, and I want to keep it that way. No fuck ups."
***
The gasman visiting Davy's flat to service the boiler gave him an idea. Time, when you have plenty, is a beautiful tool. Somehow, he had to check out both Red Mafia houses. For most of the week, they were empty, but someone might see him. The answer was simple: who notices the gasman?
He chatted over his idea with Tracey. That evening, she arrived home with a pair of British Gas overalls complete with an identity card.
"Where did those come from?" he asked.
"A friend borrowed them," she winked. "From her favourite gas man."
The next day, he tied his hair in a ponytail, trimmed his beard, and acted like a gas engineer, checking out both houses. No one bothered him or asked what he was doing as he wandered around holding a clipboard in his hand, apparently looking for something.
Hate warped his thinking as he planned the Red Mafia's destruction. Over time, he purchased everything he needed from shops across London. Then the day arrived, he was ready. Aware that something could go wrong, he handed Tracey a list. "Go to the boat and wait. Tomorrow, we'll be leaving the country."
In tears, she asked, "What happens to me if you get killed? They didn't give a flying fuck when they torched the club. If they catch you, the bottom of the Thames is where you will die."
He shouted at her with such venom in his voice she recoiled in fear. "I don't give a fucking toss. They killed a part of me, and I need this. Do you have a problem with that?" He lowered his voice. "Sorry, Tracey, I didn't mean to shout. I'm mad, and I need to stay that way. The documentation for the boat is in the safe. Everything I have is yours if this goes pear-shaped."
For the next thirty minutes, he dressed in his foul-smelling vagrant's outfit and looked the part with the aid of stage make-up.
She looked him squarely in the eyes. You're determined to go through with this, aren't you?"
He hesitated, nodded, kissed her on the forehead and left.
Davy glanced up at the window and they exchanged glances as she mouthed "Take care. I love you."
