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  ‘Dunno.’ Lev shrugged. ‘My money would be on one of Kaplan’s crew. The one that’s not blood. It might not be him, though.’ Even the thought of grassing manifested itself as physical pain somewhere in Lev’s chest. ‘But if that was me and I was forced into doing illegal shit and wanted to get the likes of Paddy O’Brien off my back, I might go to the coppers too.’

  His mother nodded. ‘Thank you for your honesty, Leviticus. See? You can do it when you try.’

  ‘You getting me a fancy solicitor, then?’

  She waved the policeman aside, as though he were an inconvenience. Turned back to Lev. ‘And you will know the truth, and the truth will set you free. John 8:32.’

  Chapter 26

  Conky

  ‘Get me the hell out of here, you big Irish bastard!’ Paddy said, thumping the wall of his holding cell. ‘I’ve got flights booked for Thailand and a demanding bitch of a wife that’ll go with or without me, if I know our Sheila. She’ll leave me in here to rot!’

  He rounded on Conky, who was sitting stiffly on the edge of the bunk, gripping the thin mattress. Packed and ready to go. Desperate to get out of this claustrophobic hole with its smell of second-hand urine, stale alcohol and the desperation of the belatedly repentant. Being cooped up at Her Majesty’s leisure with Paddy for company the once had been enough. He had been a younger man then and he had been earning his stripes as a hard man. But this? At his time of life? His calf muscles started to twinge. His thyroid was out of whack.

  ‘Sheila’s on with it, boss,’ he said, pushing his glasses up his nose. ‘When I’m out of here—’

  ‘It’s alright for you!’ Paddy strode over to the tiny barred window. His shirt tails hung over his trousers, which were set lower on his hips than usual. The slim black tie had been removed, as had his belt, of course. For a man who was perpetually puffed up with a fighter’s spirit and an ego to match, Conky thought his boss suddenly looked as though somebody had punctured him to let the air out. He was just a paunchy ageing man. ‘They’ve got nothing they can hold you on. You’re just paid muscle, aren’t you?’

  Conky looked down at his unlaced shoes. Still muddy from the cemetery. It didn’t matter that he was in here without his thyroxine and felt like a wreck. He was just the ‘paid muscle’. And poor, loyal Sheila was apparently a heartless bitch, if Paddy were to be believed. He opted to say nothing in response.

  ‘It’s me they’re after, Conks. I’m the King. They’re gonna throw the book at me. I’ll go down. You might have to take the fall for me somehow, mate, because I’ve got kids, haven’t I?’ He adjusted his genitals through his trouser pocket. ‘And what would happen to our Frank? He needs me.’

  The jangle and scrape of keys in the lock came as a relief. Conky looked at the heavy metal door hopefully, willing himself not to answer. With a squeak, it was pushed open by the staff sergeant.

  ‘McFadden. Time to say ta-ra to your girlfriend,’ he said. ‘I’ll give you your shoelaces back as long as you promise not to leave the country.’ The sergeant winked at Paddy. ‘And you can just think of it as an extension on a spa break. Good for the waistline.’

  ‘Fuck you!’ Paddy railed at the policeman, hurling himself too late at the door as it clanged shut.

  Outside, Sheila was waiting in the black and white Bugatti. The diminutive million-pound car snarled as she revved the engine. Sleek, low, totally out of place outside the corporate glazed cube that was Greater Manchester Police Headquarters.

  Failing to suppress a relieved smile, Conky opened the passenger side door, withstanding the ache of his stiff knees and sore calf muscles to compress his bulk into the low-slung seat. The tan leather that cocooned them smelled like a million. And above it, a whiff of Sheila’s perfume. He breathed the intoxicating smell in. Exhaled slowly and covered his mouth as he grinned.

  ‘Paddy would have your guts for garters if he knew you’d picked me up in his baby, Sheila,’ he said. Touched his unreliably attached quiff, praying the hair-piece’s glue would hold. Suddenly wondering if he looked acceptable after two nights with no opportunity for personal grooming. He was just a decaying old fart after all and had no right to be sitting next to a beautiful woman in a car like this!

  Sheila smiled at him, showing two rows of pearly white teeth. A glint in her eye like the promise of diamonds in a rock face – the perfect antidote to the time he’d spent locked up with her husband.

  ‘I won’t tell if you won’t, Conks.’ A wink. A pat on the knee. ‘Our treat. We’ve earned it.’

  We. Our. Conky swiftly turned his attention to the drab surrounds of flat grass, roundabouts and identikit HQ buildings. Prayed she wouldn’t see any pink in his sallow cheeks.

  She laughed at his side. A gale of mirth that put him in mind of a songbird. The car pulled away from the kerb and howled towards the motorway, following the signs for the North.

  ‘What’s the plan?’ he asked. ‘Are we not going back to yours to chew over who might be behind this?’

  Sheila shook her head. ‘No need,’ she said. ‘Turns out Gloria’s quite the detective. I’ve got a little loss that needs adjusting, Loss Adjuster. Are you feeling judicious?’

  ‘Aye. It’s my job and I always take pride in my work.’

  ‘You’re a professional, Conks. I admire that in you.’ She gestured with her head towards the glove compartment. ‘Everything you need is in there.’

  Inside was a Beretta semi-automatic and a silencer, which he attached as they headed along the M60.

  ‘Who’s my target?’ he asked.

  ‘You’ll see. Turns out, we need to keep our enemies close and our friends much, much closer.’

  Chapter 27

  Sheila

  ‘You took your time getting me out,’ Maureen Kaplan said. Her throaty smoker’s voice, full of the usual bluff and confidence, echoed around the disused mill. But her appearance gave away her true state of mind. In the bright moonlight that shone through the giant windows, long since smashed into jagged apertures by vandals, she looked pasty-faced and dishevelled. Smaller than usual, as though being held in a cell had washed the inflated ego out of her, causing her to shrink to normal size. Still wearing the same clothes she had worn to the funeral, minus the hat. That much was visible in the semi-dark. ‘What was so urgent you couldn’t let me go home and shower?’ She shone a feeble torch into the thick blanket of darkness.

  ‘You’re out, aren’t you?’ Sheila said, her heart thumping loud enough for the others to hear, surely. ‘I think “thanks” is the word you’re looking for.’

  Satisfied that Maureen had not been followed, Sheila stepped out of the shadows, pulling Frank with her.

  ‘Hiya, Mo,’ Frank said, waving meekly.

  ‘And why’s he here?’ Maureen asked. Disdain in her voice that she certainly didn’t use when she spoke to Paddy.

  At her side, Frank’s shoulders drooped. Poor bastard. Sheila squeezed his arm in an empty gesture of solidarity.

  ‘Because he’s family. I wanted him to see what family does to keep strong when the shit hits the fan. While Paddy’s inside, he’s said I’m his representative, right? Frank’s here as my witness.’ She turned to the giant loom – the sole relic of a bygone era – that had been left to rot in the vast expanse of the mill floor. The long shadows cast by it almost obscured the figure of a tall wall of a man who leaned against it.

  ‘Come out, Conky,’ Sheila said, beckoning him into the light.

  Maureen flicked the torch’s beam onto Conky’s face. In that space, her intake of breath was audible. ‘Didn’t recognise you without your glasses on,’ she said, faking a ha-ha chuckle that everybody present knew masked fear.

  ‘Hello Maureen,’ Conky said. ‘I took my glasses off so I can see your regret and humility more clearly in this charming moonlight.’ His deadpan Northern Irish delivery somehow made the air stiff and brittle. ‘Except, I’m not seeing regret or humility. I’m seeing a trembling woman, taken down a peg or two, who still displays an o
verinflated version of herself.’

  ‘I-I don’t know what you mean,’ Maureen said, switching the torch on, off, on, off. A substitute for a facial tic, perhaps. ‘Why should I be humble? What the hell is this? You take forty-eight hours to get your faithful accountant out of clink and summon me to some condemned shithole in the wilds of Oldham. This isn’t even your turf! It’s Boddlington turf.’

  Conky advanced fully into the moonlight, cutting an eerie figure. Scratching his temple with ominously leather-glove-clad hands. Seemed fitting that the Loss Adjuster should wear the skin of another over his own skin, Sheila mused.

  ‘The Boddlingtons are still indisposed, along with most of our lot. Anyway, I’d say, given you’ve brought the wrath of HMRC down on everyone’s heads, you owe Sheila one big bloody thank you, not a load of attitude.’

  ‘Me? I’ve saved you millions of pounds over the years. Not to mention kept you all out of prison!’ Maureen clasped her coat shut with her free hand. Switched off the torch and slid it into her pocket.

  ‘That’s true,’ Frank said, rocking back and forth on his heels. Hands shoved into his anorak pockets. ‘She’s been nothing but a star for keeping the M1 House books straight, has Mo.’

  ‘Shut it, Frank,’ Sheila said. ‘Let Conky speak.’

  Maureen took several swift steps forward so that she was close enough to enable Sheila to smell her beneath the clothes. Unwashed. Dehydrated.

  ‘Why don’t you speak, Sheila O’Brien? You dragged me here. You tell me why I’m responsible for what’s happened? Eh? All these years I’ve kept my gob shut.’

  Sheila took a step forward to square up to her. Towered above her in her Louboutins. ‘All these years, you’ve lined your pockets, Maureen, so don’t give me that holier than thou bullshit.’

  Unafraid to meet her gaze, whatever trepidation Maureen had shown on arrival was dissipating fast.

  ‘Kiss my arse, you brainless Barbie Doll bitch. I answer to Paddy, not you!’ Her mouth was downturned, her eyes narrowed – angry crow’s feet etched into her cheekbones, telling the story of a long-harboured animosity towards Sheila. The moonlight and sharp shadows gave her a ghoulish appearance as she spoke.

  ‘Hey. Back up, Maureen. Show some respect,’ Conky said. Steel in his voice. He reached inside his overcoat and pulled the Beretta out of his breast pocket. It glinted in the light of the moon. Beautiful and deadly like a piece of poisoned treasure. He screwed on the silencer with practised fingers. ‘Sheila is in charge while the boss is in absentia. Those are the terms. Sheila is doing the boss’ bidding. So, you treat her with the same deference as you show your King. Is that understood?’

  Maureen eyed the handgun and retreated. Shot a nervous glance towards Conky. A pleading look at Frank, whose arms were folded tightly across his chest like a chastened little boy. ‘You going to put a bullet in me?’ The tremor in her voice had returned. She looked back to Sheila. ‘Is that how you treat your loyal business partners?’

  ‘Pack it in, She,’ Frank said. ‘Let’s go home and have a nice brew.’

  ‘Button it, Frank!’ Sheila said, never taking her eyes from the accountant. ‘There’s no such thing as loyalty between business partners in the criminal underworld, Maureen.’ She folded her arms, stifling the inclination to slap the mighty Maureen Kaplan to the floor now that she had finally revealed frailty. ‘You know that better than anyone – kissing Jonny Margulies’ and Tariq Khan’s arses and then my Paddy’s without so much as cleaning your teeth in between time. If there was honour amongst thieves, Mo dearest …’ Sheila stalked towards her captive, enjoying the way her eyes darted furtively around the expanse of the mill. Maureen was clearly seeking an escape route, feeling certain she was just another loss about to be ‘adjusted’.

  ‘… If there was any honour, Mo, Frank’s Jack would still be here, and me and Paddy would be jetting off to Thailand, leaving this shifty, shithole city of violence and rain behind. None of this crap would have gone down.’ She halted in a blissful shaft of pure moonlight, the broken glass casting jagged patterns on the old splintered wood flooring. ‘But you know and I know that a gangster’s word is not his bond. This isn’t some sticky-handshake, legalese Mason bullshit that you professional arseholes do. This is Manchester’s bad-boys playing the game. Paddy said he’d never shagged you, and I know he lied. The Boddlingtons said they were buying us out, and I know they lied. Your lot said our accounts were safe from HMRC, and now, I know you lied.’ She stuck out her chin in defiance. Flicked her hair over her shoulder triumphantly. Savouring the contrition in Maureen’s haggard face. In that cold light, the show-stopping platinum blonde of the accountant’s hair had dulled almost to grey.

  ‘I had nothing to do with this raid,’ Maureen said. Not tearing her gaze from the gun. ‘My conscience is clear. I’ve devoted my entire career to being discreet. Even my boys have been roped into serving the O’Briens faithfully. A dynasty of loyal Kaplans. You talk about the loyalty of blood. There’s loyalty for you.’

  ‘Leave her be, Sheila, love,’ Frank said. ‘I trust Mo. I’ve known her for years, haven’t I?’ He shuffled towards the cornered Maureen, arm extended, as though he could somehow shield her from this deadly confrontation.

  ‘Step aside, Francis,’ Conky said, waving the gun dismissively as though he were an indulgent parent herding wayward children. Frank nodded silently, sidling back towards Sheila with an apologetic shrug. ‘And ladies, let’s allow for a little sober reflection here.’ He pointed the gun directly at Maureen once again. ‘The fact remains that all the wrong files have apparently fallen into two wrong sets of hands – namely, Ruth Darley’s and Ellis James’. And we know that information could only have come from someone playing on your team, Maureen.’

  ‘Who?! I trust my boys with—!’

  ‘Although that person has demonstrated a woeful lack of gumption and commitment,’ he continued, ignoring her protest. ‘And, whether through the overdeveloped conscience of a born hypocrite or some misguided notion of self-preservation, was easily swayed into handing sensitive information to the authorities. Which means you have a conundrum on your hands, Maureen. Sheila here wants you to make a choice. She’s going to give you two options. You take the bullet. Or you order the loss-adjustment to be visited on the guilty party.’

  Maureen sank to her knees. Clasped her hands to her mouth. Wide-eyed now in that eerie light.

  ‘What? You want me to sanction a hit on one of my sons? What kind of person do you think I am?’

  ‘Did Abraham not prepare to sacrifice baby Isaac at the behest of a vengeful Jewish God?’ Conky asked. ‘Was that not the ultimate test of fidelity?’

  Shaking her head, Maureen started to sob. ‘Which silly bastard is it? Not my Zac! Surely not Steven. Or Louis. None of them! None of them! I’ll take the bullet.’

  ‘Ah, eh, Mo,’ Frank said. He turned to Sheila. ‘Stop it, Sheila. This is bollocks, man.’ He pointed towards Maureen. ‘She doesn’t deserve this. Shit happens, man. The coppers and the tax and government are all in cahoots. I bet they broke in and stole a load of files. You don’t know who’s tapping your phone or listening in on your frigging emails nowadays. We’re in a surveillance society, man.’

  There were tears standing in his eyes. Her chest ached at the thought that Frank had to bear witness to this unpleasantness. Sensitive Frank, who had already suffered enough. The younger brother whom Paddy so often shielded from the tougher side to the business. But tonight, she needed Frank to see, so that Paddy would hear how she had done her husband’s bidding, meting out the proper punishment on their firm’s behalf as though she too had O’Brien blood running through her veins. She sighed, unexpectedly bowed beneath the weight of her responsibility as the dutiful wife of a bastard.

  ‘Back off, Frank. Come on, Maureen. Let’s stop pissing around. What do you choose?’ She turned to Conky. ‘Bring him out.’

  Kneeling with her hands raised in supplication, Maureen watched agog as Conky retreated to the fa
r side of the old loom. There was a scraping noise. The sound of wood on wood, as something heavy was dragged across the floor. Superseded by the muffled groaning of a man who had been silenced by duct tape.

  With a racing heart, Sheila watched the two blurry figures sharpen as the moon spotlit the scene. Conky, stooped over his quarry – a man strapped to a chair, hands tied at the back. Wearing a pair of pyjamas, since they had pulled him from his north Manchester bed. The sound of his wife and children screaming, still ringing in her ears.

  ‘David!’ Maureen said. She gasped. Her crocodile tears subsided abruptly. Dry eyed, she appraised her son-in-law with the keen gaze of a nocturnal bird of prey, scoping out a mouse in the long grass. ‘You went to the police? Why? How could you, when you knew how high the stakes were? We’ll all go to prison.’

  In his seat, David Goodman struggled. Tried to yell. Tears ran down the sides of his bright red face. The veins in his neck stood proud like green cord. Anger as well as fear in those bloodshot blue eyes. Sheila was sure she could sense a little loathing for his mother-in-law too. A cheering thought.

  Scrambling to her feet, Maureen advanced rapidly towards the chair and planted a right hook on Goodman’s left cheekbone with such force that his head flicked to the side with an unpleasant cracking sound. She retreated, nursing her knuckles.

  ‘You idiot!’ she said. Disgust in her voice, a good octave lower. ‘You’ve ruined it for the whole family. Everything I built up over the years … I’ll do time. We’ll all go down. And your wife – my daughter – will have to live with the shame.’ Pointing, pointing as though with every stab of her index finger, she hammered the blame home deeper. ‘All the money will go. Your kids’ futures are ruined. And it’s your fault, you weak, loose-lipped shmuck.’