‘He didn’t want to do that, did he? This was a gang hit, he’d have done them all without thinking twice. Just not so fast. Probably got himself tagged in the process. And it wouldn’t have been one man. That was a pro, I’d say. A pro who didn’t want a kid on his conscience. We had any other hits that look like they were done by pros recently? Eh?’

Eddie knew where this was going. Joe might be a scary bastard, but he was nobody’s fool. And he was right.

‘Warren Margetson.’

‘Yeah, Warren Margetson. Shot in the head with a .22.’

Joe nodded as the gunman methodically sent a hundred grand up in flames. Then burned out the car he’d waited in with equal calmness.

‘See? No hurry, no worry. That’s a pro, knows exactly what he’s doing.’

They watched as the black-clad figure got into the Beemer and made his exit. Joe nodding as the boy came out of the stairwell shooting.

‘Kid’s got some balls, got to give him that. Get Richard down to the nick, double quick. Make sure the filth behave themselves with him.’ He stared at the screen, shaking his head at the scattered bodies of his men. ‘That bloke, he was something else. He was stone fucking cold. In, do the job, out. No drama, just business. That, my son, is an assassin.’

Eddie would have rolled his eyes at the repressed excitement in Joe’s voice. Except Joe had turned to look at him, so he just nodded.

‘Someone’s coming after me, Eddie. Someone nasty. And they’re using hit men. Which means that we need to get our shit in a pile, before this gets any worse. I want to talk to Felgate, and I want to talk to that kid.’

He rolled his head on his neck. Like a boxer loosening up for a fight.

‘Go back through the recordings. See if you can find him dropping the car off. And now you can bring out the prick who was supposed to be running this operation for you. I think a few well-chosen words are in order. Not to mention a tickle or two from Lewis. Success is its own reward, but failure needs a more results-based approach. Don’t you think?’

11

Mickey strolled up the road from the railway station, feeling exhausted. He’d driven the rental back to Martin’s lockup. Returned the weapon and drunk a cup of tea with his friend. Recounting the events of the last hour with a feeling of detachment. As if someone else had wreaked all that havoc. Martin had listened to him talk. Expressionless. Giving no clue as to his thoughts on the matter. Which was just as well, because all Mickey had wanted was to unload.