‘What’s wrong?’ I said, turning back to him with a plate in each hand.

He looked up, his eyes bulging, his mouth agape.

‘What in Christ’s name does this mean?’ he said and held the phone towards me.

I put the plates down and grabbed the phone. And as I started reading the text every muscle in my body went still.

This morning I sent the following message to every detective on the organised crime task force. Thought you should know.

It was the same message with the same unambiguous threat.

‘Is this for real, Laura?’ Aidan asked, thrusting his chin towards my mother. ‘Are our lives in danger?’

14

Slack

He was on his second pint when Danny called him on his mobile.

‘I’m sorry for the delay, boss. The plane got stuck in a holding pattern over the airport for ages. Then we had to contend with the bloody rush hour.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘I’m just checking her into the hotel. What about you?’

‘I’m in the pub. Arrived about half an hour ago.’

‘Great. We should be there in ten minutes.’

It was why that particular hotel had been chosen. It needed to be within walking distance of the pub.

‘What about the second text message?’ Slack said. ‘Did it get sent?’

‘It did. I had confirmation a few minutes ago.’

The second message had been Danny’s idea. He’d come up with it late last night as a way of raising the fear factor even before the killings began. It was sent to those people close to the detectives whose phone numbers they’d been able to obtain.

‘Just so you know, boss, I’ve not had a chance to talk to Jack about the gear,’ Danny said.

‘Don’t worry. He’s taken delivery of everything and it’s all out the back.’

Jack Pickering was the pub landlord and he worked for Slack who owned the building. There was a yard at the rear with a lock-up garage that the firm made extensive use of. It was the perfect place to store the stuff that Rosa Lopez needed to do her job.

After hanging up, Slack sipped at his beer and looked out the window. The evening rush hour was over, but in this part of Lambeth the roads were still busy.

It had taken them almost an hour to get here from Dulwich – a distance of about four miles. On the way he’d told Mike to drive past the house where Terry Malone had lived and died.

It had made him feel sad and yet pleased with himself at the same time. Sad because of what had happened to Terry and pleased because he’d been able to avenge his untimely death.

He didn’t give a toss about that gun-toting copper or his family. The bastard determined his own fate when he shot a defenceless Terry in cold blood.