He had never had much of a relationship with his brother. In fact the two had cheerfully hated the sight of each other. Craig applied himself at school, was popular with his teachers and in his brother’s considered opinion was a ‘crawling little cunt.’ He had always refused to become involved in the various dishonest enterprises which occupied every waking hour of Michael and his gang. As a result he was invariably referred to simply as ‘The Wanker.’

When he left school, Craig spent his nights loading vans for City Bakeries in order to pay his way through college. He obtained a diploma in accountancy, got himself a job and devoted his energies to becoming a fully qualified chartered accountant.

He stayed at home only to protect his mother from the drunken violence of his father, and when the latter died he left home and headed for London. This was his first trip back to Glasgow. He had kept in touch with his mother by phone and letter and received the occasional report from friends about his brother’s nefarious activities. His mother was convinced that Michael was a good boy about the house who, for some reason, was being picked on by the police. Craig knew differently.

The news of his brother’s violent demise came as no real surprise to him. He had long known it was only a question of when, not if. He had come to the funeral for his mother’s sake, not out of any sense of brotherly love or loyalty. Sitting in the stark surroundings of the crematorium listening to the resident minister going through the necessary formalities and watching the shrouded coffin sink into the floor to be burned, only one thought kept coming into his mind:

I hope I don’t miss that fucking plane.

Chapter Four

Charlie Gallagher did not attend either funeral – for two good and compelling reasons. One, he was not invited. Two, more significantly, he was locked up in prison having been remanded on a charge of murdering Kevin Boyle.

He had not been in the least surprised by the arrival of the police at his front door – even at six in the morning. Police officers delight in dawn raids. If asked in court, they will trundle out the stock excuse that at this hour there are less people about and consequently less risk of interference. In addition, it is also to spare the blushes of the target and save him the embarrassment of being arrested in the full public gaze that they choose the hour. Both explanations are fatuous. Quite simply, police officers delight in the drama of dawn raids.