Jackson sighed. Burselm was a mid-level dealer who worked north Manchester. He had a little network of dealers beneath him, and he had been causing trouble for the last few months. He had somehow fostered the idea that he was in a position to barter on the price that he paid for Jackson’s coke. Jackson didn’t barter—never had and never would—and now it looked as if Burselm was going to need a reminder of how things were.

“You need me to do anything?” O’Sullivan asked.

“No, Desmond,” he said, using the man’s given name because he knew that he hated it. “Just piss off.”

O’Sullivan got up, the pain on his face suggesting that Burselm had worked him over pretty good, and left the room. Jackson opened the safe that he kept under the desk. He had a CZ-75 semi-automatic 9mm pistol that he had bought from a contact in the Czech Republic. He wrapped his hand around the black pistol, popped out the magazine and checked that it was loaded. He pushed it back into the port and slid the weapon into the waistband of his trousers. Burselm was an irritating little blowhard with ideas above his station, and Jackson was going to make an example of him. He knew how the business worked: you gave an inch; they took a mile. That wasn’t about to happen to him. He closed and locked the safe and went back out into the main room.

“Where you going?” McMahon said.

“Burselm.” He turned to O’Sullivan. “Where does he live?”

“He’s got a place in the city.”

“Where?”

“The Leftbank building in Spinningfields. He rents the penthouse.”

“Of course he does,” Jackson said.

27

Milton, Chase and Hicks left the apartments and got into the vehicles that they planned to use for the job: Milton and Hicks were in the Ford Galaxy, and Chase was in the Mondeo.

Milton heard Ziggy’s voice in his ear. “This is Ziggy,” he said. “Comms check. Over.”

Chase had purchased four pay-as-you-go phones yesterday evening and they each had one, all of them patched together on a conference call. Milton pressed his finger into his ear until the earpiece was tight and brought the microphone around so that it hung just below his chin.

“This is Milton. Copy that. Over.”

“This is Hicks. Roger. Over.”

“Baxter. Over.”

“This is Ziggy. Comms check all good. Over.”

“Update on Jackson?” Milton asked.

“Still at the warehouse. Having a vigorous exchange of views with the two other men there. No sign that he’s leaving yet.”

“Keep us posted.”

“Copy that. Traffic is clear to your destination. You’ll be on site in ten minutes.”