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Chapters (49)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Book
  3. About the Author
  4. Also by Tony Parsons
  5. Dedication
  6. Epigraph
  7. PROLOGUE
  8. PART ONE
  9. 1
  10. 2
  11. 3
  12. 4
  13. 5
  14. 6
  15. 7
  16. 8
  17. 9
  18. 10
  19. 11
  20. 12
  21. 13
  22. 14
  23. PART TWO
  24. 15
  25. 16
  26. 17
  27. 18
  28. 19
  29. 20
  30. 21
  31. 22
  32. 23
  33. 24
  34. 25
  35. 26
  36. PART THREE
  37. 27
  38. 28
  39. 29
  40. 30
  41. 31
  42. 32
  43. 33
  44. 34
  45. 35
  46. 36
  47. 37
  48. 38
  49. MAX WOLFE RETURNS IN 2018 …

‘A married man from Hammersmith,’ I said. ‘Your son – your other son, Barry – told me that you betrayed his mother and that’s what the real problem is between the pair of you. Not that Barry wouldn’t go into the family business. Not that he was too soft for your taste. Not that he was too straight for his dear old dad. And not even that you took one look at the dolly birds of Swinging London and decided that you wanted some of the action. Tommy,’ I said, and the boy-man grinned at me, raising his eyebrows at the sound of his name. ‘Tommy is the reason that Barry hates you.’ And a deeper truth now seemed obvious to me. ‘But Barry doesn’t hate you just because Tommy was born,’ I said. ‘Barry hates you because you love him.’

There were tears in the old gangster’s eyes but his mouth was twisted with violence. Not for the first time, I wondered what would happen if the pair of us went one on one. I would not fancy my chances unless I got in first.

‘But I was never a pimp, Max. That’s where you’ve got it all wrong, son. And I told you once before – if I wanted an extra couple of quid, I wouldn’t stick a bunch of poor little cows in the back of a lorry.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘I don’t care what you believe. You know what I believe? I think you wanted my scalp all along.’

I turned away.

‘I’ll let you spend time with your son,’ I said. ‘But settle your affairs, Paul. Because I’m coming for you.’

34

We smashed down his door at dawn.

The time of pliant suspects in their pants, pulled from REM sleep with slow reflexes and the vulnerability that comes with all that naked flesh.

But Paul Warboys stood fully clothed in the narrow hallway of his docklands flat with a black sap in his hand.

Waiting for us.

‘Come on, you cow sons,’ he said, and it struck me that he still spoke the lost language of old London – only the oldest faces still said cow sons – and that some words die with their generation.

Then he brought the sap down on the head of the leading copper.

He was a big uniformed sergeant, one of mother nature’s rugby players, as brave as they come, but he went down like a snowflake, his legs giving way the moment we heard the dull thwaaack of leather-clad lead on the thin crust of bone that covers the skull, out stone-cold before he hit the deck.