The cop from up north was there. Cafferty didn’t know her name, but he’d seen her on TV. He’d thought he might see Rebus, but that was another no-show. One of the thickset young men had made his way through the mourners towards Cafferty, leaning in to mutter in his ear that “Mr. Christie would like a word before you go.” Cafferty had hung back, watching people as they readied to go to the reception. Darryl had helped his mother into the limo, pecking her on the cheek and closing the door. Then he’d straightened his jacket and tie and headed for Cafferty. Cafferty held out a hand but Christie ignored it.

“You holding up?” Cafferty had felt it polite to ask.

“That’s not the question you really want an answer to.”

“All right then—where’s Frank Hammell?”

“He’s out of the game. Signed all his businesses over to me.” Christie’s eyes had come to rest on Cafferty’s. “Is that okay with you?”

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

“Because you still want to feel like a player. But we both know that’s not going to happen now. I’ve seen the way you operate, and that means I’m armed for any fight you want to start.”

“I’m past all that.”

“Those are the right words, but your brain needs to start believing them. I’ve studied hard, Cafferty, and I know which bits of this city Hammell controlled. As things stand, I’m not looking for a war—what’s yours is still yours. Only thing that’ll change that is if you decide this is a good time to try a bit of poaching or border-crossing. Do we understand one another?”

And only then had Christie reached out his hand towards Cafferty. The kid was eighteen! Eighteen! At eighteen, Cafferty had been no more than a foot soldier. And now he was being told what was what by a skinny waif with a Napoleon complex and a handful of paid minders to stop him coming to harm.

But he had shaken the hand nonetheless.

Now, as he sat in his study, he knew Darryl Christie had made the right move at the right time. The changeover had been smooth. Hammell was keeping his head down, but as yet no one was saying he wouldn’t be seen alive.

What’s yours is still yours…as things stand…

The cheek of the little bastard!

A clever sod, though; not to be underestimated or misjudged. Cafferty was embarrassed at the way he himself had played the whole thing—trying to be avuncular, an arm around a shoulder—when Darryl already had his plans in place, as cool and calculating as you liked.

It was to be admired, at least in the short term.