Declan and Michael exchanged glances; at last the man was making sense. It was about time he earned his fucking keep! Branch was like all bent Filth – he wasn’t liked or trusted by the people who paid his extra-curricular wages, or the people he had to work with in his capacity as an Old Bill. They would all know that he wasn’t kosher or to be completely trusted. Word travelled fast, and that was something no one could prevent. It was a double-edged sword. He was paid a good wage to ensure that he was on their side if it ever went pear-shaped, but he was automatically suspect because he was selling out his own. Treachery wasn’t looked on lightly in either of the circles Timothy Branch moved in.

Declan poured Michael another drink; he needed it – the man was in absolute shock. ‘Come on, Michael, sit down and drink this. You’ve had a shock to your system.’

Michael allowed himself to be seated and took the drink offered to him. He had never felt so useless in his whole life. He kept seeing Jessie, the fear on her face, and the picture of his mother, dying in front of his eyes. No one seemed to be able to give him any information of use. He had a very large workforce, and not one of them could find out even the simplest thing about Steven Golding.

Timothy Branch cleared his throat noisily. ‘I’ve had my blokes comb through his medical records, and there’s nothing of value, Michael. They have been to every address where he’s been registered, checked with his doctors, and not a fucking whisper.’

Michael Flynn started to laugh loudly, but it was an unnatural sound, too high pitched and too heartbreaking to be normal.

Declan and Timothy watched Michael laughing, warily.

Arthur Hellmann looked up from his computer in the corner of the room and he said triumphantly, ‘I’ve got him. I think I’ve found the fucker.’

Declan knelt down in front of Michael and, grabbing the man’s shoulders, he shook him roughly. ‘Stop it, Michael! Will you just stop laughing. Listen to me! This isn’t over yet.’

Eventually Michael began to quieten down, and then he seemed to pull himself together. Pushing Declan away, he picked up the glass of brandy from the table, and swallowed it in one gulp. He looked into Declan’s eyes, saw the worry there and the genuine concern for his wellbeing. Michael wiped his hand across his mouth roughly; he had no choice left but to face this.

‘It’s OK, Declan. I’m fine. I’m OK.’

Declan was still kneeling on the floor, shocked by Michael’s reaction. It wasn’t like him to lose the plot. The man had every reason to – it just wasn’t something he had expected. Michael Flynn was a hard man, harder than anyone Declan had ever known.