Theresa knew straightway her suspicions were correct. ‘She has a crush on you, God help her.’

She watched his shoulders relax at her words. ‘There’s not a lot I can do about that, Nana. It’s the old Bailey charm.’

‘Bailey being the operative word. She’s your cousin.’

Petey looked at his nana; she was as shrewd as she was brutally honest and she was warning him. He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Give me a fucking break, Nana! I know I’m not exactly Mr Faithful, but my own cousin? Shows what you really think about me, don’t it?’

She nodded. ‘It does. Yeah.’

She saw him narrow his eyes, and she knew she had hit the nail right on the proverbial head. ‘You leave her alone, Petey. I know you better than you know yourself. What’s bred in the bone, comes out in the blood. You’re what we used to call in Ireland a cock man – you see a hen at every opportunity, and you live for the chase.’

He laughed, trying to diffuse the situation. ‘I hold me hands up! I like the ladies, but I know where to draw the line. She’s my fucking cousin! Give me some credit, will you?’

Theresa let it drop; she had made her point, and he was aware that she was on to him. It pained her to admit that, as much as she loved her eldest grandson, it had been many years since she had actually liked him.

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Six

Detective Chief Inspector Christopher Williams was a strange man, but Danny Bailey liked him. He was as bent as a corkscrew, and he had the mentality needed to differentiate between certain crimes. He would hunt down a rapist or a nonce, with the tenacity of a Rottweiler, but he was quite happy to turn his eyes away from certain other criminal activities. He was never backwards in coming forwards, especially when it came to his price – and he priced himself highly. But he was a man who could find out literally anything. He was not that tall, but he had bulk and, coupled with his bald head, deep-set blue eyes, and pock-marked skin, he looked more like a villain than a Filth.

‘Hello, Danny. My condolences.’

Danny nodded, and poured the man his usual – a large neat Grey Goose over ice. The man sank it in two gulps and held his glass out for an immediate refill.

‘Hit the fucking spot, I tell you. Traffic is murder out there. Fucking hours to get through the congestion! I’ve seen babies born quicker.’

Danny placed the bottle of Grey Goose vodka and the ice bucket on the table; experience had told him that was the best thing when dealing with Williams. He was a functioning alcoholic, and he was actually quite proud of that fact – he brought it into conversation at every opportunity.