Contents ( 84)
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- SIXTY-ONE
- SIXTY-TWO
- SIXTY-THREE
- SIXTY-FOUR
- SIXTY-FIVE
- SIXTY-SIX
- SIXTY-SEVEN
- SIXTY-EIGHT
- SIXTY-NINE
- SEVENTY
- SEVENTY-ONE
- SEVENTY-TWO
- SEVENTY-THREE
- SEVENTY-FOUR
- SEVENTY-FIVE
- SEVENTY-SIX
- SEVENTY-SEVEN
- SEVENTY-EIGHT
- SEVENTY-NINE
- EIGHTY
- EIGHTY-ONE
- EIGHTY-TWO
- EIGHTY-THREE
- Acknowledgements
Three men. One a full-grown Michael, exactly thirty years old on the day it was taken. To his right, Daniel Lawrence. The same age but four inches shorter, back when Daniel had been whippet-thin. And to his left, Derek Reid. Michael’s former pupil-master. Almost twenty years older than Michael and Daniel, he was two inches taller than Michael’s own six foot one and was half again as wide across his broad shoulders.
Michael’s two closest friends and – after Liam – as close as anyone could come to being family.
Both dead. Both murdered.
Michael shook his head at the thought, glancing across again to the picture of Liam as he did so. His three brothers; one by nature, two by choice. All dead.
And yet somehow he was still here. Somehow he was living his best life, engaged to a beautiful, successful woman and at the top of his profession. Despite everything he had done – all of the wrongs that came back to his door – it was always others who had paid the price.
Always his brothers.
It should have been me, he thought, taking another mouthful of whisky as a tear slowly made its way down his right cheek. It should have been me.
But it had not been him, and Michael had learned to accept that. Moments of weakness aside, he had learned to live with the guilt. With the knowledge that the people he loved had paid for his misdeeds. He had done so because the alternative was unthinkable.
That they had died for nothing.
It was exactly that which concerned him now. The threats from the American as they had left the courtroom. Michael had seen enough of life to know instinctively how dangerous that man was, and to trust that he did not make threats lightly.
Which left him where? Back in danger? Back in the firing line?
And who’ll die for me this time. Sarah?
The thought was almost too much to bear, and so Michael was happily distracted when the sound of his mobile broke through his downward spiral. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the handset, unsure if he intended to answer.
The name on the screen made the decision for him.
That cannot be a coincidence.
‘Joe Dempsey. How the hell are you?’
THIRTY-ONE
Bruce Bull replaced the telephone handset into its cradle and sat back into his chair. The call had been from Belmarsh. And like everything else, it had only served to complicate Bull’s investigation.
‘Gonna share, boss?’
Sean McConnell was Bull’s most experienced detective sergeant. Originally from Dublin in the Republic of Ireland, at fifty years old he had worked alongside Bull for exactly half his life. First at Special Branch, then at SO15.
He was one of the few people Bull trusted completely.
‘Seems our boy attacked a prison guard,’ Bull said. He made no attempt to hide the resignation in his voice. ‘As they un-cuffed him on arrival at Belmarsh.’
‘Shit. More fight in the little fella than you thought then.’