Linford Fargas watched the events with a nonchalant air; he prided himself on always backing the winning pony. Truth be told, poor old Joseph had never had a chance. He wasn’t fish nor fowl. Now he was nothing.

Linford went inside the Portakabin and picked up his twenty grand – not bad for a night’s work. If Joseph had used his considerable loaf and paid out over the odds for his loyalty, he might have been in with a chance tonight.

Now, though, Jonny Parker was king of the hill, and there would be no one capable of stopping him for a good few years. It would take that long for a new little crew to grow and develop, but he had a hunch that Jonny P, as he was now known, would still be a match for them. Jonny had what they called back in Jamaica the devil’s want, and he wanted it all. Well, he was welcome to it, and the problems that came with it. Because this first hurdle might be over but he now had to deal with Kevin Bryant, never a man to cross lightly.

But time would tell; by tomorrow night one, or all of them, would be dead. That was Linford’s opinion anyway.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Kevin Bryant heard the news of his business partner’s untimely demise with his usual closed features. His expressionless face was his trademark in his world. He never looked angry, rarely looked pleased and had never in living memory laughed out loud at anything. Hence his nickname, Kevin ‘No Face’ Bryant. He liked the moniker, felt it put him above most of his contemporaries. His countenance, coupled with the fact he never spoke unless it was extremely necessary, only added to his criminal mystique.

His wife Sojin, a thirty-something living doll, told all and sundry that he was a different person at home with her and the kids, that he never stopped talking, but no one actually believed her, much to her chagrin. They thought Sojin was with him because of who he was; it never occurred to anyone that she might actually see a different side to him than everyone else. It grieved her that no one saw the ebullient, funny man she loved and adored, because adore him she did. From his size twelve feet, to his balding, endearingly ugly, head.

Kevin’s second-in-command, a tall, frighteningly skinny man called Bertie Warner, was trying desperately to gauge his boss’s reaction to the outrageous news that Joseph Makabele had been hacked to death by Jonny Parker and the Anthill Mob from Brixton.

‘Do you hear me, Kev? They fucking nutted him, he was chopped up like a fucking Friday night fish! Do you not have any interest in what the fuck I am telling you?’

Shrugging disinterestedly, Kevin said quietly, ‘He’s dead then?’