At that moment Kennedy’s phone rang and he stood, excusing himself from the observation gallery to take the call. Moments later, he returned.

‘I’m terribly sorry, sir, but I have some bad news.’

Ross, who had been dreaming of a drink, looked up at him. ‘Go on.’

‘It’s your brother, Simon, sir. He’s been found dead of a heroin overdose.’

Chapter 35

CHAPTER 35

So this is what a garden centre in Whitstable looks like, thought Abbott, as he stepped into a greenhouse. He had gone into the shop first, where the air was cooler. ‘I’m looking for the owner, Mr Ward,’ he had said, gazing around at displays of plant pots, artisan chocolate and craft beer and finding it difficult to reconcile the image he had of Freddie Ward, SF operator and one of the best explosives men he had ever worked with, even being in here, let alone owning the place.

‘You’re not Alex Abbott, are you?’ said the lad behind the till. And the penny dropped. Abbott looked hard at him.

‘You’re his son, are you?’ said Abbott.

The kid had stood and offered his hand to shake, but even so, his eyes were wary. ‘The name’s Graham,’ he said. ‘And Dad’s expecting you but . . . before I show you the way, do you mind telling me what you want with him?’

So polite. So unassuming. Freddie Ward’s kid all right.

‘It’s a bit of business,’ said Abbott.

‘But something tells me it’s not in the garden centre line.’

‘No, you’d be right about that.’

‘If my mother was here, she would probably tell you to sling your hook, you know.’ The kid smiled like he wanted to offset being rude but wanting to honour his mum at the same time. Abbott’s heart went out to him to such an extent that he considered turning on his heel and leaving there and then – leaving Freddie Ward to a new life that he fully deserved to live to the full.

Instead, he said, ‘So your mum? She’s . . .’ He had never met Ward’s wife and was only vaguely aware he even had one. It wasn’t like he had never been interested. Just that they didn’t talk about that kind of thing. You talked about the job. You talked about who was doing what, where and with whom. You talked about music and football and weaponry. But what you didn’t really talk about was home. Talking about home jinxed it. Talking about home brought chinks into your armour.

‘She passed on a couple of years ago. It’s been hard for us since then.’

‘I’m sorry.’