Michael snorted with derision. ‘Eccentric? Is that what you really think? She is a fucking card-carrying, bona fide head banger. I just wish I’d admitted it to myself ages ago. My mother, another fucking so-called “strong” woman, warned me about her from the off. She said she was a bit fucking doolally tap. But I had to have her. I loved Josephine so much, like she was a fucking terminal disease I’d contracted. I let her get away with murder. No matter how fucking nutty she got, I just kept pretending that it was perfectly normal. But it’s not, Declan. She doesn’t give a fuck about Jessie, not really, or little Jake – or even me for that matter. All she cares about is herself, and her fucking problems. I am so fucking sick of it.’

The phone rang and Declan picked it up quickly, glad to shut off Michael’s conversation. It was not like him to say anything derogatory about his Josephine.

Michael watched closely as Declan listened to whoever was on the other end of the phone.

‘Are you a hundred per cent sure?’

Declan was once again the listener, and Michael was watching his every nuance. ‘Good man. Fucking result. Tell them to bring it here. Canary Wharf.’

Declan replaced the receiver and, looking at Michael, he said quickly, ‘It appears our Mr Golding has been spotted. That was Jack. It seems that one of his blokes is visiting his old mum in Essex – she lives in Canewdon, near Rochford – and he thinks he saw him coming out of the local SPAR there. By the time the geezer had got parked – and we all know what Essex is like for parking – he’d lost sight of him. But he’s purchased the CCTV from the shop, and it’s being brought to us now. So at least this is something, Michael. If it is him, we have a location.’

Michael Flynn felt tearful; the relief he felt was so potent, and overwhelming. Never before, in the whole of his life, had he felt so useless. He was the main man, everyone came to him for their earn, he dealt with the Colombians, he basically held Europe in the palm of his hand and yet, for all that, he still couldn’t locate his own daughter. The irony.

Chapter One Hundred and Twenty-Five

Chapter One Hundred
and Twenty-Five

The CCTV footage wasn’t exactly HD, but it was good enough for what Michael needed. ‘That’s him, Declan! It’s fucking him! At long last.’