He scribbled the note then and there, and went straight out and posted it. So it was done. But how to tell Nula? Well, he’d have to. Somehow. Or . . . maybe make up something, get one of their boys to forge an official-looking letter saying their application had been turned down. That was favourite. He’d get something cobbled together, and that would shut her up. There’d be no son, and he was sick about that, sad and sorry, but he couldn’t take any more of this delving into his business dealings. It was too dangerous.

‘We haven’t heard from the adoption place recently,’ said Nula over breakfast one morning.

‘Ah, you know how it is with these official things. They’re quick enough with the tax bills, but when you want anything? You can fucking well stew,’ said Charlie, pushing his empty plate to one side, then draining his coffee cup and slipping on his coat. ‘I’m off, doll. See you later.’

32

Charlie had arranged to pick Terry up at one of the houses he kept as boltholes in the old manor, take him along for a meet with one of the ten-kilo guys. As Charlie drove, he told Terry about the adopting dilemma, just as he told Terry about everything. Well, nearly everything. Some things were a bit too near the knuckle for open discussion.

Like – for instance, and he felt really bad about it – the fact that he’d once fucked Terry’s old lady Jill, years back. He wished he could talk to Terry about that, apologize, say that it had been a one-off, which it had, but Terry was his mate and he . . . nah, he wouldn’t understand. No way, no chance. Now Charlie regretted that he had been weak, that he’d given in to the impulse.

He’d been down in the gatehouse kitchen with Jill and Terry had been away somewhere, on drugs business. Jill had made him a cup of tea and they’d talked. Jesus, she was pretty. And she was uncomplicated, steady – unlike Nula. Jill had always seemed wary of him, a bit nervous. He sort of liked that. He liked her clear blue eyes and her blonde hair and he had often wondered how she’d look naked.

Charlie was annoyed that Terry had always been such a cunt over their sex parties. If Terry and Jill had joined in, they would have enjoyed it, he knew they would. He’d invited Terry time and again, but Terry had always refused.

Standing there in Jill’s kitchen when it happened, Charlie knew damned well that his invites to Terry had not so much been to include his mate in the fun, but to have a crack at his mate’s missus.

And why not?