But we didn’t need forensics to tell us that we’d hit the jackpot. We now had all the evidence we needed to arrest and charge Roy Slack and to make sure that he spent the last days of his life banged up in a prison cell.

‘Let’s go collar the lying bastard,’ Drummond said. ‘And if we get really lucky we might find that he’s shacked up with the biker bitch.’

71

Slack

He was dreaming about Terry Malone, the son he had scarcely known. They were sitting next to the pool at the villa in Spain, sipping beers while Terry’s wife Amy frolicked in the water with the baby.

They were having such a great time, away from killer cancers and trigger-happy coppers.

He was telling the boy about his life, about his wife Julie, about his mum and dad, and about how he had built his vast criminal empire from scratch.

‘This villa will be yours one day, Terry,’ he was saying. ‘Along with the firm and everything else I own. And you can pass it all on to my grandchild.’

But as with most of his dreams it ended suddenly and unpleasantly.

He heard Amy scream, and darkness replaced the sunlight. Then he saw himself standing over Terry’s grave as the coffin was being lowered into the ground. He felt the anger rise up inside him and the tears gush from his eyes.

And then he was lying in a hospital bed, surrounded by coppers in uniform who were laughing at him, taking the piss, telling him he’d got what he deserved and they hoped his cancer-riddled body would rot in hell.

But in response he just sat back against the pillows and smiled at them, because in the end he knew that he would have the last laugh.

The ringing of the phone woke him, and he was surprised to find that he was still on the armchair in the living room. The lights and the TV were on and his dressing gown was sprinkled with ash from the cigar he’d smoked before falling asleep.

On the coffee table in front of him was an empty glass and the bottle of Scotch with the top still off.

He looked at his watch and groaned when he saw that it was only one thirty in the morning.

The phone was on the carpet next to the chair so he had to lean over to get it and stretching send a bolt of pain shooting up his arm and across his shoulders.

He realised then that he hadn’t done himself any favours by dozing off in the chair soon after Rosa had messaged him to say that she’d taken out another cop. He should have gone to bed, stretched out, and made himself as comfortable as possible.

‘Hello,’ he barked into the phone.

‘It’s me, Roy. Thank God you answered.’