‘I’m not going to see them,’ said Claire.

‘But, Mom . . .’

‘No,’ said Claire, her voice edged with steel this time. ‘Now drop it, will you? Come on.’ She forced a smile. ‘Let’s raid the minibar. You look like you need a drink.’

Suki accepted a measure of whisky from her mother, and Claire poured one more for herself. They sat in silence on the couch, sipping the warming alcohol, Suki thinking about her unknown grandfather and her aunt, wishing so much that she could meet them. Then she thought of Josh’s witch of a wife in the solicitor’s office, the harshness of her voice, the viciousness of her gaze, the way she had come at Claire, shrieking, her nails ready to rake the skin off Claire’s face.

Aysha, Josh’s daughter, had eyed them like they were the worst kind of scum. And Josh’s son, Connor – who looked so like Josh – he had stared at them both like he hated their guts. Suki shuddered at the memory. Somehow, Connor’s reaction had hurt the worst. And yes, maybe she’d found him scary, but she had also found him devastatingly attractive; every nerve in her body had felt sensitized when he was near her.

Probably she had told him more than she ought to. Maybe he would talk to his mother about what she’d said. And if he did . . . what the hell would happen then?

144

144

Having dropped off Suki at her hotel, Connor called Mad Dog. He told the swivel-eyed gink to keep an eye on the Milo women, make sure they didn’t go near the family, check in with him now and again, let him know what they were getting up to.

‘Consider it done,’ said Mad Dog Cunningham.

‘It better be,’ said Connor.

When Connor got to Mum’s, he found Shauna in the kitchen, sitting at the coffee bar. She’d taken up the fags in earnest since Josh’s death, and she was puffing away beside an ashtray overloaded with stubbed-out filter tips. A half-cup of espresso was at her elbow.

She looked rough, edgy. Not like she needed espresso. She looked like she needed to calm down, quick. Her dark hair, usually so neatly groomed, was all over the place, as if she’d been dragging her fingers through it. Her eyes were fixed and manic as she took another deep drag of nicotine.

‘That bitch,’ she said the minute he came into the room. ‘That cowing fucker.’

‘Thought you’d kicked the habit,’ said Connor, sitting down opposite. She’d smoked before, sometimes – thin cigars at Christmas, the odd cigarette when she was feeling tense – but now she was dragging that shit into her lungs like she wanted to start something down there, something black and terrible.

‘Taken it back up,’ she said with a tight, bitter smile. ‘What you been doing?’