“Clean that shit up,” he said, pointing to the glass that had fallen across the floor. “If this house isn’t spotless by the time I get back, you can fucking do one. And get me some beer, you lazy bitch.”

He snagged his coat and left.

18

Jackson drove up to the gate at the side of his warehouse and waited for McMahon to notice that he was there and buzz him in. He looked around the cabin of his Bentley Continental and allowed himself a flush of pride that he was able to afford a set of wheels like this. He had picked it up from the dealership two weeks ago, and it had quickly become his daily drive to and from the office; he kept his Ferrari in the garage at home and used it at weekends for a change. He had a vintage Jaguar in the space next to the Ferrari, and the new Porsche Taycan—the top-of-the-range Turbo S, of course—that he had on order would fill out his collection, at least until he felt like changing one of them. He had the better part of a million pounds invested in those cars, and that was ignoring everything else that he had been able to amass over the course of the last three years. The house on the Wirral was worth five million, bought from a Liverpool footballer after the greedy Scouse tit had been transferred to Barcelona. Even his business—Northwest Lead—was worth several million, and that was only considering its legitimate activities. The company was a front, and, when the business that it shielded was taken into account… Well, Jackson thought with a self-satisfied smile, it was hard to put a value on what it was really worth.