Danny wished with all his heart that he didn’t have to be the bearer of such awful news. But, unlike these two, he had been suspicious of his cousin for a long while now, ever since he’d drugged him. He looked his uncle in the eye, and said honestly, ‘All Petey gave you, Uncle Pete, was what he wanted you to see. He edited everything he had gathered from the Old Bill – he had to. He has been cultivating a lot of Filth over the last couple of years and, from what I can surmise, they worked for him – not us. Not the Baileys, as a family. He was just looking to cover his own arse. He must have been at fucking panic stations when he realised that you were still . . .’ He didn’t finish the sentence; he knew how hard this was. ‘This lot cost me a hundred grand, and that was my own money I used. I was willing to lose all that if I was proved wrong, and I wanted to be wrong – I never wanted this. But it’s the truth. Your Petey was behind the bomb that killed my mum. The bomb that was meant for you. There’s no easy way to say that, no fucking way to sugar coat it, is there? It’s a fact. And more than that, a fucking disgrace, a fucking diabolical liberty.’

Daniel Bailey was looking at his brother with fury. The enormity of what he was hearing was just sinking in. That he had been harbouring the fucking piece of dirt, the man who had planted a fucking bomb that had taken his Lena away from him, was unbelievable. He had loved that fucker like a son. He knew as well as his brother that his Danny would not dare to accuse anyone of this – let alone a close family member – without absolute proof.

Daniel looked around him at his new offices, all matt paint and designer fabrics, and he yearned for the old days when this had been no more than a common-or-garden scrapyard, and the kids had been far too young to hurt anyone. Peter Bailey had inadvertently produced their own nemesis; he had loved and nurtured that cunt, and for what? Daniel was his godfather; he had stood in the church and pledged to God to look after him if needs be. He had been given everything, yet Petey had grown up to be nothing more than a fucking traitor, a man who would plan his own father’s demise. He had somehow been born with all the weaknesses that they, as brothers, loathed and manipulated to earn their coin. Petey was a gambler, a womaniser, a traitor, a user of everyone around him. Peter had been harbouring a viper, a liar, and a fucking thief.