She closed her eyes in distress. Michael was right. She honestly didn’t care enough about anyone; all she was really bothered about was Michael’s threat of putting her into a mental institution. She wasn’t a fucking fool. If she went into one, she knew that it would be a long time before she would ever get out again.

Chapter One Hundred and Forty

Chapter One Hundred
and Forty

Michael drove through the gates of the scrapyard slowly. The old boy who worked the night shift was a stickler for fucking social etiquette. Michael waved at him in a suitably friendly fashion, and he saw his gratified smile. He sighed in annoyance. He was a nice old geezer, a Face in his younger days, but that didn’t warrant all this fucking babysitting and smiles every time he drove into the yard. Declan had always said, it takes two minutes of your life to recognise a good worker, and that recognition would guarantee their loyalty for twenty years. He was absolutely right, of course. But tonight Michael wasn’t in the mood.

He parked his Range Rover next to his Mercedes and, as he got out and stood on the tarmac stretching, he was gratified to hear that whoever was in the boot of his Merc was making one hell of a racket.

Declan came out of the Portakabin doorway. He looked huge against the lights. Declan had gradually got bigger and bigger over the years, and it was only now that Michael was really noticing that.

‘Drink first?’ Declan was miming drinking a cup of tea with his little finger raised up like an old biddy.

Michael laughed despite himself. You couldn’t not like Declan Costello – the man was a genuine diamond. Even at a time like this he could bring a smile to Michael’s face.

‘Pour me a large brandy, but first up, open this fucking boot.’

Declan took the Mercedes keys from his trouser pocket, and opened the boot quickly.

Steven Golding was lying there, and he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. He trained his gaze on Michael warily.