‘He’s really asking for it, this one.’

They turned the corner and walked along the uneven pavement between decaying Victorian houses fringed with iron railings. The Irishman paused, pulling the other man to a halt, and listened, but the only sound was the roar of the early morning traffic from the main road, strangely muted by the fog.

A frown creased his face and he took an anxious step forward. Behind him, Garvald moved up the steps from the area in which he had been waiting, swung the small man round and raised a knee into his groin.

He sagged to the pavement with a gasp of agony and the Irishman turned round. Garvald stood on the other side of the writhing body, hands in the pockets of his raincoat, a slight smile on his face.

‘Looking for somebody?’

The Irishman moved in fast, great hands reaching out to destroy, but they only fastened on thin air and his feet were kicked expertly from beneath him.

He thudded against the wet flagstones and scrambled to his feet cursing. In the same moment, Garvald seized his right wrist with both hands, twisting it round and up, locking the man’s shoulder as in a vice.

The Irishman gave a cry of agony as the muscle started to tear. Still keeping that terrible hold in position, Garvald ran him head-first into the railings.

The small man was being sick into the gutter and now he got to his feet and leaned against the railings, an expression of horror on his face. Garvald stepped over the Irishman and moved a little closer and the small man felt such fear as he had never known before move inside him.

‘For Christ’s sake, no! Leave me alone!’ he gabbled.

‘That’s better,’ Garvald said. ‘That’s a lot better. Who sicked you on to me?’

‘A bloke called Rosco – Sam Rosco. He and Terry did some bird together at the Ville a couple of years back. He wrote to Terry last week from this dump up North where he lives. Said you were bad news. That nobody wanted you back.’

‘And you were supposed to convince me?’ Garvald said pleasantly. ‘How much was it worth to pass the message along?’

The small man moistened his lips. ‘A century – between us,’ he added hastily.

Garvald dropped to one knee beside the Irishman and turned him over, whistling a strangely sad little tune in a minor key as he searched him. He located a wallet and took out a wad of five-pound notes.

‘This it?’

‘That’s right. Terry hadn’t divvied-up yet.’

Garvald counted the money quickly, then slipped it into his inside breast pocket. ‘Now that’s what I call a very satisfying morning’s work.’

The small man crouched beside the Irishman. He touched his face gingerly and recoiled in alarm. ‘Holy Mother, you’ve smashed his jaw.’