That just left Daniel, who would guess pretty sharpish that he was living on borrowed time. Peter Bailey’s son would be shrewd enough to keep Daniel in line until such time as it was safe to remove him as well. Daniel Bailey would have his suspicions, that was a definite. But it would be a while before he had anything remotely concrete to act on.

Terry Allen was pleased with himself; he had planned this down to the last detail and, after tonight, certain people would know that he was not a man to cross. He was already euphoric. It felt fucking good, there was no doubting that.

As he ordered another round of drinks, he saw Dessie Graham, the landlord of the pub, walk into the bar area and, smiling widely, he said cockily, ‘You all right, mate? You look like you’ve lost a tenner and found a pound.’

The man ignored him and, unplugging the jukebox, he waited patiently for everyone in the pub to stop talking before he said quietly, ‘There’s been a car bomb in London. Lena Bailey, Daniel’s wife, has been killed.’

No one said a word. A few of the women made choking noises as the enormity of the woman’s demise hit them, and Terrence Allen could almost feel the genuine shock and horror of the people around him as a physical thing.

But it was nothing compared with the shock and horror that was settling on to his shoulders. This had gone seriously wrong, and he was shaking with fear.

The tragic news would spread like wildfire, as he had known it would, only it wasn’t the news he had been expecting. This was news he had not contemplated in a million years. Lena Bailey was a woman of renown – she was respected, she was Daniel Bailey’s wife, for fuck’s sake! She was not supposed to die like this. She was supposed to die in her bed, years from now. Her untimely death would be seen for what it was – a complete fucking abomination.

What the fuck was she doing in Peter Bailey’s car? And, more to the point, why was no one in it with her? This was bad, very bad, for all concerned.

Chapter One Hundred and Eighteen

Her father’s grief was palpable and Tania was unsure how to deal with it.

Her brothers were sitting in the big kitchen, their faces white with the shock, and still she couldn’t cry. She knew she should be beside herself, knew she should be prostrate, but instead she was just numb. She couldn’t feel anything, she wasn’t even sure she believed it. Maybe they had got it all wrong, her mum couldn’t be dead. She just couldn’t be.