Saturday morning; 11.30. Roz off getting her roots done, then down to the shops. Having promised Mickey a nice bit of steak for dinner. And Mickey pretending to himself that he was reading the paper. While his subconscious kept on playing clips of Lewis’s hate and pain-contorted face as a torrent of liquid cement poured over his bloody torso. Wondering if he was showing symptoms of PTSD. His personal phone buzzed. Number withheld. Probably a marketing call. He’d been getting two or three a week over the last couple of months. Fuelling his belief that nothing was private when there was money to be made.

‘Mickey Bale.’

‘Police Sergeant Bale.’

So much information in those three words. The word “police” spoken with an edge of malice. Telling Mickey that “filth” would have been more to the speaker’s taste. The word “sergeant” told him that whoever had called him knew exactly who he was. And his name articulated with an edge of deep satisfaction. A tone that said “at last”. Mickey’s instincts went to red alert in the time it took to digest them.

‘You don’t know me, Mickey.’

Almost gleefully expressed. This wasn’t going to be good, Mickey already knew that much. Subconsciously desperate to hit the end-call button. But he knew the other man would simply call him back.

‘But you’re going to know me. And you’re going to regret it for the rest of your life.’

Oh shit. The man on the other end paused for a moment. Clearly relishing the moment of confrontation.

‘A period of time that is going to be very short, brutal and ultimately very fatal. Guessed who I am yet?’

Jesus fucking Christ.

‘Joe Castagna.’

Mickey managed to keep his voice level. Just.

‘Yeah. Who’s a clever boy? Although not quite as clever as you hoped, eh? I’m going to say a name to you. Let’s see if it rings a bell, shall we? Martin Hyde. Your arms dealer mate. We took him off the street about three hours ago. And do you know what, he spat your name out in less than the time it took to chain him to the lifting tackle in my games room. Gave me the lot. Everything.’

Almost everything, presumably, Mickey thought. Prayed Martin hadn’t told him about Nemesis. At least not yet.

‘So there’s nothing I don’t know about you. And what you’ve been doing. And of course now that I know all that, I’ve got you by the fucking bollocks. Your nuts, Mickey Bale, are in my left hand. And there’s a knife in my right hand. You’re proper fucked, son. And so is everyone you care about, literally fucked. Unless you do exactly what I tell you. You listening?’

‘Yes.’