‘Mr Kilgore.’

‘Mr Doyle.’

Raymond Doyle lit a cigarette, relaxed into his voluminous leather desk chair and pictured Kilgore at the other end of the line. ‘And how is Juliet?’ He grinned.

‘Mrs Norton is quite well, thank you.’

‘Still playing the grieving widow?’

‘Mrs Norton is quite well, thank you. Now what can I do for you?’

‘There’s somebody in town. A bloke asking around after my nephew.’

‘I see. And by nephew you mean Jason Scutter?’

‘That’ll be the one.’ There was a silence. ‘And I thought that you – by which I mean you and Juliet – might like to know.’

‘Some kind of . . . what? A private detective?’

‘Search me, but if he’s said who he is then it ain’t reached my ears, and if it ain’t reached my ears, then he hasn’t said.’

‘And you’re sure he’s from out of town?’

‘If he was from round these parts, then he he’d know better than to be asking after my nephew.’

‘Is he staying in the city?’

‘Don’t know yet.’

‘Does this sort of thing happen often?’

‘Mate, it happens never. Even more surprising, the bloke’s hiding in plain sight. He told one guy his name.’

‘Go on.’

‘His name is Alex Abbott. And apparently he wants Scutter to know he’s coming for him.’

‘Leave this with me. I’ll be back in touch.’

***

The following day, Doyle’s phone rang.

‘Hello, Mr Kilgore.’

‘Mr Doyle. Does the name Chris Abbott mean anything to you?’

‘Something to do with our friend Alex, is it?’

‘His brother. I repeat, does the name mean anything to you?’

‘Can’t say it does.’

Kilgore told Doyle the story of Chris Abbott.

‘So now big brother’s come looking for payback?’

‘Little brother. But yes, it would seem that way.’

‘I can only assume that he doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.’

‘Chances are that even if he did know, he wouldn’t care. Alex Abbott is ex-special forces.’

‘Won’t make any difference what he is when I put him through the meat grinder. You tell Juliet that I’ll sort it.’

‘Wait, Mr Doyle,’ said Kilgore. ‘There is something I need to discuss with her.’

‘Oh yeah? And how long will that take?’

‘Remain by the phone. I’ll do it now.’

Sure enough, moments later the phone rang.

‘We have had an idea, Mr Doyle,’ said Kilgore. ‘Call off your men.’

‘You don’t want me to get rid of him? You don’t want him dead?’

‘Oh, we want him dead,’ said Kilgore. ‘But we’ve thought of a way to kill two birds with one stone . . .’

Chapter 17

CHAPTER 17

A residential area in the south of the city, and Abbott walked into yet another anonymous, housing-estate pub. More having to resist the temptation of booze. More of that nagging feeling that he was getting further and further into something.