‘What kind of family trouble?’

‘It’s Mandy. My Mandy. She’s dead.’

‘Dead?’ O’Grady’s gravelly voice was disbelieving.

‘What happened? Was it an illness, what?’

He took the proffered cigarette and pulled on it deeply, his eyes travelling around the large room without seeing anything. He had been dealing with Patrick Kelly for over fifteen years. Although the two men had met face to face only twice, they had built up a mutual respect and friendship over the long-distance telephone line.

Shaun O’Grady was an American version of Patrick Kelly. Except Shaun O’Grady had branched out into other areas that Kelly knew about only through word of mouth. One of which was a service providing professional hits.

As Kelly spoke, the woman watched O’Grady’s face. Sighing heavily, she pulled on a negligee and left the room. She switched on the thirty-six-inch television in the bedroom and, sprawling on the bed, began watching I Love Lucy.

She knew Shaun well and when his face had that look, it was best to keep out of his way.

‘Pat, Pat, I’m heart sore for you.’ O’Grady thought of his own three daughters ensconced in a large house in Palm Springs with his ex-wife. He might not spend much time with them, he was a busy man, but they were his children, his flesh and blood. He felt a moment’s guilt as he recalled he hadn’t seen any of them since the Christmas holidays.

‘What can I do to help you? You name it.’

‘Our man is at this moment in Florida. That’s why I’ve called you, Shaun. I want him removed from the earth. I want him dead.’

‘It’s as good as done, Pat. Give me the details and I’ll see to it at once.’

‘I’ll send the money within a few days . . .’

‘There’s no need for money.’

‘Fair dos, Shaun, I’ll pay. I’ll ring through the details in a couple of hours.’

If it was one of his daughters . . . O’Grady closed his eyes. It did not bear thinking about. He began to jot down Edith’s address and after a short exchange both men rang off.

O’Grady sat on his white leather Italian settee and stared at the Salvador Dali on his wall. He was fifty-eight, with a bald head, long baggy jowels and a large belly that nothing would get rid of. He had short stubby legs and arms.

He caught his reflection in the mirror and wiped his hand across the stubble on his jaw.

He thought of his ex-wife’s house, with its comfortable battered furniture and his three young daughters. He heard Lucille Ball’s voice coming from the bedroom and winced.

He had exchanged all that for a bimbo and a two million dollar bachelor pad.