For a while there was not a whisper of sound in the room. Everyone froze, barely believing what they had witnessed.

‘Cunt!’ said Frank loudly, and kicked the corpse.

Dora looked at Dickie, who was sheet-white, still clutching the gun. She could hear someone across the room starting to vomit. She could smell the heavy metal stench of blood and felt her own gorge start to rise.

She’d just witnessed a murder.

They all had.

Trembling, she propped herself up, staggered back to her feet. She wanted out of this place. Barely knowing what she was doing, she headed for the stairs, trying not to look at the horror right beside the staircase. No one stopped her. She went up the stairs, slipping on blood and staggering, feeling hot sour bile in her mouth. Suddenly she was up on the pavement, she was away from it all. Moaning, standing there in warm afternoon sunshine, she gulped in beautiful fresh air. Shaking, crying, she started to walk. Then she started to run for home.

But nobody noticed the state of her when she finally got there. The whole house was in uproar. Alec was pacing the floor with Dad and looking about as sick as Dora felt. Lil had gone into labour and had only minutes before given birth to a baby boy. They were going to name him Tommy.

13

‘So we’re clear? You know what you got to do, Bruno?’ asked Frank Pargeter.

He was sitting in the snug at the Bull, in his usual chair. None of his other boys were in and there was no Baxter tonight, just Bruno.

‘Sure, boss.’

A man of few words, Bruno. Frank liked that about him, even if the state of the guy was enough to give anyone nightmares. And he wasn’t that bright. So Frank went over it, one more time.

‘Kim Merton. The tart who threw the party. Phil Krayburn. Casey Pullman. Nice and slow and easy. Space ’em out. You got that?’

‘Sure, boss.’ Bruno squinted. This meant he was deep in thought. ‘What about the runner?’

‘Who?’

‘The girl who ran. Up the stairs. Away.’

‘Ah, yeah.’

Frank sat back in careful contemplation. The pretty little blonde who was dating Dickie Cole. Well, who had been, anyway. Dickie was in clink, out of it. She was a sweet curvy little thing, very forward, her eyes full of flirty promise. Now, Dickie was history. Which was all good news, as far as Frank was concerned.

Dora.

That was her name.

‘What you want me to do about her, boss?’ asked Bruno.

Frank smiled. ‘I’ll see to her,’ he said.

14

The following Saturday, Dickie didn’t turn up at the memorial. Dora did, but only so that she could finish with him. She couldn’t believe what he’d dragged her into, the sort of people he’d made her come into contact with. And him. He’d had a gun. He must have missed with the first shot, and then it had misfired, but he had intended to kill the man in the hat. And . . . she couldn’t even pretend to believe his protests of innocence over poor William Maguire. Not any more. Not after that.