Williams poured himself another large drink before saying, ‘So, young Danny, I am assuming this ain’t a date. What do you want?’

Danny sipped his brandy delicately. ‘I need some information, but it has to be between me and you – a private transaction. The family can’t know about it.’

Williams laughed. ‘Like that, is it? Has this anything to do with your recent problems?’

Danny nodded.

‘I hear your family have been on to every bent Filth they own – but no one came near me. So why now? I deal with nonces and murderers, the occasional high-end drug dealer or blagger. I am a legend in my own lunchtime, as you well know.’

Danny laughed; this man was a riot. One arrogant ponce, as his father would say. ‘I want you to get me copies of all the fingerprints and all the forensics from the bombing. Could you do that?’

Williams frowned; he was genuinely puzzled. ‘But your family have already got all that, or so I heard anyway. West End Central was buzzing afterwards.’

Danny grinned. ‘It was damage limitation, that was all.’

‘I guessed as much. I can’t see terrorists really bothering about you lot, but the papers do love a fucking good story, don’t they? How much did it cost to set that rumour abroad?’

Danny shrugged. ‘Enough. But what I want now, Chris, is everything. I want copies of everything pertaining to the bombing, I want all the paperwork connected to it and I want copies of the original documents.’

Williams was genuinely perplexed. ‘Are you saying you were short-changed?’

‘I’m saying I want you to do this for me as a personal favour, and I want you to buy the necessary papers from someone who my family has never dealt with before. There’s a hundred grand if you can deliver. Two hundred if you can deliver within three days.’

Williams poured another Grey Goose, and he swallowed it quickly. He was running names through his mind, working out how he could accomplish what had been asked. He was ticking off possible candidates he could approach, working out what he had on certain people, and how much it would cost him to buy their services.

Finally, after what seemed an age, he smiled at Danny Bailey and, raising his glass in a toast, he said confidently, ‘Consider it done.’

Danny nodded. ‘I also want everything they have on Terrence Allen’s death.’

Williams sat back in his chair; he was aware there was a hidden agenda here, and he respected that. He was sensible enough to know that this man had his reasons, and they did not concern him. ‘As I said, Danny, consider it done.’

Chapter One Hundred and Thirty-Seven