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  For a while, he lingered on the details of that dreadful and yet somehow wonderful act.

  But enough, he eventually thought. It was all very well reminiscing, basking in the pleasures of the past, but he had a job to do. Marty glanced in the rear-view mirror. He spat in his hand and smoothed down his hair. Destiny beckoned and you always had to look your best for the ladies.

  Chapter Forty-two

  Stevie Hills had asked around. He’d thought he would be able to get a shooter for twenty, thirty quid, but despite all the stories on the news, all the shit about the streets being awash with deadly weapons, none of his contacts had come up with the goods. This was, he concluded, because either the media or his contacts were full of crap but there wasn’t much he could do about either of them. It was Thursday already, midday, and time was running out. Tomorrow he was supposed to be meeting the kid on the Green. It would be a shame to see all that easy cash go to waste.

  Vinnie would’ve known what to do but he was still in the Scrubs, doing a five-year stretch for robbery. They weren’t due to visit for another week and anyway, it wasn’t the kind of thing he could mention in front of their mum. She was pissed enough already at having one son in the slammer. Of course, it wasn’t so much the crime that bothered her as the fact he’d been caught and that she now had to make the effort to go and see him every fortnight. This was something she never stopped complaining about from the moment she stepped inside the jail until the moment she left.

  Stevie unlocked the door of the flat and went in. ‘Mum?’

  He waited but there was no reply. Was she on the early shift this week? He couldn’t remember. If she was, and she didn’t stop off at the boozer, she could be back within the next half-hour. Which didn’t leave him long. He had to make up his mind – and quick.

  He glanced towards her bedroom. No, it was a bad idea. Definitely a bad idea, except … Well, there was no harm taking a look, was there? It didn’t commit him to anything. It didn’t mean he had to take it. Come to that, it might not even be there any more. It was a while since he’d last checked it out.

  Stevie went to the kitchen and rooted under the sink for a screwdriver. As he came back into the hall, he thought about putting the chain on the door. He stood there for a while, trying to make up his mind, but decided to leave it. If she came back and found the chain on, she’d know for sure that he was up to something – and it wouldn’t take her long to shake it out of him. She was a bruiser, his mum, one strong lady with a mouth to match. It didn’t do to cross her. He’d be wiser to just keep his ears pricked for the key turning in the lock.

  Her bedroom was tidier than usual, with most of her clothes put away. He hoped it didn’t mean she was expecting company. Or, more to the point, that she was expecting John Devlin. He hadn’t been around in weeks. It must be more than a month. Stevie hoped they were finished, although he could be wrong. Her lousy boyfriends came and went, and occasionally came back again.

  Kneeling down, he pulled the rug aside and stared at the floorboards. It was impossible to tell just from looking. They were all flush, completely level – there wasn’t even a creak if you walked over them – but he knew that the one he wanted was fourth from the left. He knew because he’d been standing behind the door, peering through the crack, when John Devlin had flipped it up and put the plastic bag inside.

  Stevie slid the screwdriver into the slim gap. After carefully easing up the board, he sat back and grinned. Result! It was still there. And it would be a shame, now he’d gone to all this trouble, to not do what he’d done on all those other occasions and take a closer look. He picked the bag up with the tips of his fingers and turned it around. Inside was a gun. A real gun or just a replica? He didn’t have a clue.

  Stevie slipped it out of the plastic bag and held it in his hand. If it was real, was it loaded? He put his finger on the trigger but didn’t dare pull. If the thing went off, he could blow one almighty hole in the wall. Not to mention the noise it would make. But he still couldn’t resist having some fun with it. Standing up, he took the stance – legs spread, both hands firmly gripping the revolver – and snarled: ‘Give it up, punk!’

  He laughed, danced around the room and sat down on the floor again. He was about to slip the gun back into the bag when he realised he’d left his prints all over it. The first rule of crime, as Vinnie always insisted, was never to leave any evidence. Sadly, he hadn’t followed his own good advice.

  Stevie leaned over, pulled an edge of sheet from the bed and carefully wiped the weapon clean. He put the gun in the bag and dropped the bag into its hiding place. It was for the best, wasn’t it? John Devlin was a hard nut – he worked for some old gangster – and the smart thing to do was just put it back. But despite his better instincts, another voice was softly nagging in his ear. Why not take it? Go on. Why not? Blokes like Devlin probably had lots of guns, hidden all over the place. He hadn’t been around for ages. He could have forgotten all about this one.

  Slowly, Stevie reached out for it again. The kid had cash and it was just going begging. If he played it smart, he could screw another hundred out of him. He hesitated but only for a second. Grabbing the bag, he slammed the floorboard down and rolled the rug back over.

  Chapter Forty-three

  Today was the day. Nina Delaney raised her eyes to the heavens. She could hardly believe that Vic was actually going to fork out half a million quid. What a waste! Still, she would have been willing to pay twice as much, had she had it, to keep the little cow permanently locked up. When she’d signed up for this marriage, she’d had no intention of becoming a surrogate mother to the teenager from hell.

  In fact, there were a lot of things she hadn’t signed up for. Tentatively, Nina touched the bruises on her face. She flinched. Bloody Vic! She couldn’t even go out. Make-up would disguise the colour but it couldn’t hide the swelling; even with her biggest pair of shades on, the damage was still obvious. And she had no intention of becoming the latest subject of Chigwell gossip.

  She was bored. It was only one o’clock and a long afternoon stretched out before her. Perhaps she’d go for a swim. But then she’d ruin her hair and there was no chance of being able to visit her stylist over the next few days; he was the biggest scandalmonger of all. No, she was trapped, stuck here in this prison until she was fit to be seen in public again.

  She didn’t even have Marty to entertain her. He was off with Vic somewhere, plotting and planning over how they would deal with the exchange. Vic wasn’t going to hand over all that cash without a fight – not even to save his precious daughter’s skin.

  Ever since they had married, Nina had been hoping to fall pregnant – having a child was the only sure way of securing her share of the Delaney fortune – but it had been almost two years now and nothing had happened. She was starting to worry. At this rate, Silver would be up the duff before she was. Maybe Vic was firing blanks. Maybe Silver wasn’t even his. She grinned. Now that would be a turn-up for the books.

  With nothing else to occupy her, Nina went over to the cabinet, poured a large glass of vodka, added a splash of tonic, and took the glass over to the window. She gazed out across the lawn. One of the gardeners, a tall attractive Polish guy, turned and gave her a smile. She thought about stepping outside and getting to know him better but decided against it. With no idea of when Vic might be back, she couldn’t afford to take the risk.

  By the time she had downed her third drink, Nina needed a pee but when she went to the bathroom Louisa was there, down on her knees, scrubbing the floor.

  ‘Are you going to be long?’ she said impatiently.

  Louisa glanced over her shoulder and frowned. ‘There is the upstairs, perhaps.’

  Nina heard the barely disguised contempt in her voice. It was the kind of tone that she’d never dare use if Vic was around. ‘Or you could save me the bother and just step outside for a minute.’

  The maid didn’t move. She glanced down at the wet floor and back up at her again. ‘Mr Dela
ney, he say he want the place nice for when his girl get back from the holidays.’

  ‘If she comes back.’

  ‘She not return today?’

  Nina leaned against the door and shrugged. ‘Who knows.’ Who cares, she might have added, but wasn’t prepared to waste her breath on the help.

  ‘Oh, but Mr Delaney say—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what Mr Delaney says,’ Nina snapped. ‘There are some things even he can’t control.’

  ‘Not control? I no understand. She not come back?’

  Nina scowled. Aware that her mouth might have run away with her – those vodkas had been pretty strong – she smartly clapped her hands. ‘Well, come on! Are you going to shift or do you want me to pee on the goddamn floor?’

  Reluctantly, Louisa got to her feet. She muttered something under her breath as she passed by.

  ‘What was that?’

  She didn’t repeat it. Even if she had, Nina knew that she wouldn’t have been any the wiser; it was just a jumble of incomprehensible words. She went into the bathroom and slammed the door. Why did Vic have to employ all these bloody foreigners? It wasn’t as if they were even grateful.

  Chapter Forty-four

  It was three hours since the last message had come through. The club was packed, the music loud and throbbing. There were two stag parties on the loose and the booze, along with the charlie and all the other shit, was freely flowing. Marty was on the floor, calmly watching the dancers as the punters downed their drinks and slipped their notes into all the smooth and lovely crevices that their wives and girlfriends would never approve of.

  He was waiting for Delaney’s mobile to go off again. The boss was in the office, stressing, tearing out what remained of his hair. He checked his watch. Three minutes to twelve. Two minutes. One. And then …

  ‘Marty!’

  Bang on time. Good old Susan! Suppressing a smile, he turned and walked back into the room.

  Delaney thrust the phone into his hand. ‘Deever Road,’ he said. ‘The old jam factory.’

  Marty stared down at the text. He scrolled through the message as if he was seeing it for the first time. So it was finally happening. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘What are we waiting for?’

  Five minutes later they were in the car, heading east. The cash was in a large case sitting on Delaney’s lap, half a million quid just there for the taking. As he drove, Marty was aware that he could pull up somewhere quiet, put a bullet through his head, grab the case and … But the taking was to do with more than just the money. He hadn’t gone to all this effort to see it go to waste.

  Despite the endless talking over the past few days, Delaney hadn’t come up with much of a plan. But then without knowing where the exchange was going to be, his options had been fairly limited. He could either turn up mob-handed – risky, as the kidnappers were bound to be watching the place – or do as he was told and go alone.

  It was Marty who’d persuaded him to opt for the latter. Better to play safe, he’d insisted, to get Silver released before sorting out the bastards who had snatched her. There’d be plenty of time for that later. And anyway, he wouldn’t be entirely alone; good old Marty, armed and dangerous, would be right behind him.

  Delaney was unusually quiet on the journey, his thick, mottled hands clutching at the case. Occasionally, he let go and picked up the phone, re-reading the instructions as if they might have changed since he’d last looked at them. As you enter, leave the cash on the table. Then climb the stairs to your left.

  It was the pictures, Marty suspected, that had really done his head in – poor little Silver, wide-eyed and terrified, shackled to a cellar wall. What father wouldn’t be upset? Except he couldn’t really understand the emotion or, more to the point, couldn’t even begin to feel it. It was a form of weakness, this ridiculous attachment people had to their sprogs. It wasn’t as if she was even grateful, for ever causing him grief, for ever pissing off at every opportunity. There was only one person in this world who’d been loyal to Vic Delaney and what fucking thanks had he ever got for it?

  He glared at the road, his chest tightening. Vic deserved what was coming. You’re like a son to me. That’s what he’d always said. And that was what Marty had always believed until Nina had put him straight. The moment she had told him about the will – which left three-quarters of his estate to Silver, a quarter to her, and fuck-all to the man who had stood by his side for all these years – he’d known he had to do something about it. His rage had been all-consuming. He could have killed him, throttled him with his bare hands, but that would have been too easy. He wanted to make him suffer. And then, like a gift from above, the lovely Susan had come along …

  He glanced sideways and nodded. ‘Okay, we’re almost there. Next on the left.’

  Delaney turned his head as they slowed. ‘You see anything?’

  ‘No.’ Marty drove on past, continued for another two hundred yards and pulled in. He switched off the engine. ‘You ready, boss?’

  He clearly wasn’t. His fingers clawed at the case. ‘What if she isn’t here? Fuck it! This stinks. It’s all wrong, fucking wrong! We need some back-up. We should call the boys, get them to come over.’

  Marty kept his voice smooth and calm. Vic was beginning to panic and the last thing he needed was a change of plan at the very last minute, especially after all the trouble he’d gone to. It had been no bloody picnic dragging a semi-conscious whore up all those steps. ‘It’s too late for that. What if Silver is here, what if she’s waiting for you right now? We can’t mess about.’

  Delaney grunted. He’d been on the booze for the past five hours, along with a few less legal substances too. He was high as a kite and paranoia was tugging at his nerves.

  Marty reached across and opened the glove compartment. He took out the torch. ‘Take this,’ he said. ‘It could be dark in there.’

  Delaney still didn’t speak or move.

  Looking at his watch, Marty gave a sigh and tried again. ‘They’ll be expecting you, Vic. It’s almost half past. They must know how far it is from the club to here. We hang about much longer and they’ll start to get jumpy.’ He took the revolver out of his pocket and laid it on his thigh. ‘Let’s go. Come on, I’ll be right behind you.’

  Delaney’s hand automatically rose to his chest, to the place where his own gun was. The action seemed to pacify him. He quickly picked up the case and pushed the torch into his pocket. ‘Don’t let me down,’ he said.

  ‘Have I ever?’

  Delaney got out of the car, leaned down and looked at him.

  Marty looked back. Suddenly, as their eyes met, he had his one and only moment of doubt. All the years they’d spent together, all the shit they had shared. Was this really it? A few kind words, a single expression of love or gratitude, and he might have been tempted to spare him what was coming.

  But Delaney had no kind words and his love, such as it was, was clearly reserved for others. ‘Just make sure you watch my fucking back.’

  Marty nodded. Watch his back? Oh yes, he was going to do that all right.

  Chapter Forty-five

  He followed, careful to keep his distance, as Delaney strode along the street and then turned into Deever Road. It was deserted. Of course it was. Marty had chosen the location with care. It was a short dead-end, a purely industrial road with no residential properties. There were people coming and going throughout the day but no one had a reason to be around at night.

  He stood on the corner and watched as Delaney approached the entrance. For a second, it looked like he might be about to bottle it but then he tentatively reached out a hand, pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  Marty ran to catch up with him. This was what he’d been waiting for and he didn’t intend to miss a moment. He arrived, slightly breathless, and slipped in behind. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. It was dark inside but not pitch-black. The lights from the street slid through the cracked and dusty windows and cast a soft orange glow across t
he factory floor.

  Vic had placed the case on the table and was already on his way up the stairs. The torch jumped in his hand, making mad frantic shadows dance across the wall.

  There were twenty-four cast-iron steps to the balcony. Marty had counted them. The balcony was where the old offices were situated, where the bosses had been able to stand and gaze down on their minions. A suitable place, he had decided, for Vic to face the consequences of his actions.

  Delaney stopped as he came across one of the distinctive pink shoes. He bent down, picked it up and stared at it. ‘Silver,’ he whispered. He walked up a couple more steps. He shone the torch across the balcony and finally caught a glimpse of her. ‘She’s here, she’s here!’

  Marty knew what he was seeing. ‘Silver’ was tied to a chair, her head lolling forward, her long fair hair tumbling over her face. A shiver of excitement ran through him. He watched as Delaney began to climb again. In his eagerness to reach her, his drunken feet were falling over each other.

  Marty counted down the seconds, three, two, one …

  As Delaney hit the nineteenth step the gun went off with an ear-splitting bang. Marty, although he’d been expecting it, still jumped. He instinctively closed his eyes, then quickly opened them again. He sprinted up the staircase. ‘Vic!’

  Delaney stood rigid for a moment, unable to comprehend what was happening. Then, as the horror began to dawn – that he had walked straight through a tripwire, setting off a shotgun that had been aimed directly at his daughter – he suddenly lurched forward, freeing his ankles from the string and virtually throwing himself up the last five steps. On reaching the balcony, he dropped both the torch and the pink satin shoe. Through the thin remaining light, he stumbled towards the chair. Arms outstretched, he clutched at the girl’s head, pulled aside her hair and then … The wail that came from him was almost primeval, a cry that rose up from the deepest pit of human pain. It echoed around the factory and only slowly died away. What he was beholding was beyond his worst nightmares. For a while his hands continued to paw desperately at the lifeless body but then, wide-eyed and stricken, he staggered back. His legs buckled and he collapsed to his knees.