Brad tore off the wrapping paper and shook open a Varsity jacket with a red leather torso and white canvas arms. There was a large B on the breast. He instantly hated it but smiled because Ian was awaiting his reaction.

‘Wear it all day. Try it now.’

Brad got it halfway unzipped when his mobile rang. ‘Job Centre’ popped up.

‘Attaboy,’ Ian said, leaning close to read the screen. ‘Remember to tell them that you’re willing to increase your travel distance.’

‘I’ll take it in the bathroom.’

Ian grabbed his half-finished cigar from the ashtray, and flicked a kick at Brad’s naked ass as he got off the bed.

‘Tell them we’ll have your website up and running later today.’

In the bathroom, Brad answered the call from Job Centre--, who he’d been in contact with for the last three months, since his last building site contract expired. The actual centre was in his phonebook, but under Job Centre-, single hyphen. As Ian had proved, at a glance it was hard to tell the difference between one and two hyphens.

‘One question of momentous importance,’ Mick said, as Brad answered the phone. ‘It all hung on Król. It’s what we were waiting for. Why didn’t you call me about it?’ He meant: why hadn’t Brad called to find out if Król had found the Grafton woman? Surely the stakes are high enough to warrant him worrying.

Brad said: ‘It’s all moot now Ramirez is out, so the missus thing is sixes and sevens. It’s your thing.’

He meant: Mick was the one worried about Liz Grafton, not Brad. Because with Ramirez no longer in the frame, it didn’t matter what she told the cops.

‘“My thing”? Like my pet peeve or something?’

‘Maybe. So what do you want? Picked who’s next yet?’

‘You said that before. What’s that supposed to mean, Brad?’

‘What’s next, I meant.’

‘Two things. First, I got a job for you. Not that you seem to care, but Król fucked up.’

Brad listened to Mick’s story with the door locked and the sink taps running so Ian couldn’t hear his replies. When the tale was told, he said: ‘Not the best news. But I say let them run.’

‘Well, Brad, this is my thing, isn’t it? And I say no.’

‘Yet you called me, so you think I can do something about it. What?’

Mick explained. ‘And it needs to be in thirty seconds’ time. Get going.’

‘And what else?’

‘Ah, yes. The bad news.’

‘I thought that was the bad news.’

‘Of course not. Sixes and sevens. You had a brick tossed through Ramirez’s window, right?’

‘Sure. With a note to freak him out. Watch your back, dead man walking. What’s that got to do with your guy?’

‘It fucking worked a treat, that’s what. So much so that Ramirez just called the cops. He’s so fucking scared that Grafton’s rent-a-lunatics are after him that he wants this case solved quick, before he gets chopped up. Apparently he says it might be a great idea to maybe look at the guys who hit his nightclub—’

‘What? Are you telling me we’re half a day into this and already the cops—’

‘Just calm down. You know there were all sorts of rumours flying around about who might have done it. And rumours that it was a hit on either Grafton or his old rival, Razor Randolph, and plenty of people wanted both of them dead. You haven’t forgotten Rocker, have you?’

‘’Course not, but—’

‘But nothing, Brad. So Ramirez is just assuming it’s the same guys, back for try number two. He’s rehashing old tales. That’s all. Just bullshit.’

‘But it’s not bullshit, is it? Not if my name’s been mentioned.’

‘Ramirez only mentioned a first name. Brad. A loan shark who worked for Grafton as a leg-breaker.’

‘Christ.’

‘He might also have said “Nancy-boy leg-breaker”,’ Mick said, laughing.

‘Stop fucking laughing, Mick.’

He did, abruptly. ‘Just calm down—’

‘There aren’t that many gay enforcers called Brad in London, Mick. Jesus.’

That made Mick giggle like a schoolgirl. ‘No, there aren’t. But relax, okay? Keep your legendary cool. Names are flooding in about who might have done this. You think anyone’s going to take a criminal’s word as gospel? Wait for the Queen to give you up, and then you can worry. So relax, right? Are you relaxed?’

‘And what if Grafton’s wife recognised my eyes?’

‘What, now you’re suddenly worried about her? Let them run, you said. That doesn’t sound relaxed, Brad. Try again. Summon it up from deep within. Are you relaxed now?’

‘Hell yes,’ Brad said with as much sarcasm as he could muster. ‘But they’ll look into me. Can’t afford not to. Then they’ll find out I was investigated for that murder a few years back. I’ll get the knock on the door at some point, and if Ian—’

‘There’ll be no door knock for him to answer, Brad. You’re just a person of interest based on some claim by a low life, one of a thousand who’d benefit from Grafton in a grave. But you’re right, you’re a guy with form, and maybe, even if you’re innocent, you might go underground if you know the cops are after you. That’s an extra headache. So, nobody’s going to tell your bloke anything. A pair of guys will probably hang about outside your house, that’s all. If you turn up, all they’ll do is follow you, see if maybe you go dig up the murder weapon or they can hear you bragging about the killings. Solution: don’t turn up for a few days.’

‘Why a few days? What can you do to kill this?’

‘Nothing. But the plan was always to clear out, right? We bring it forward.’

‘Leave the country in a few days? Mick, I can’t just hop on a plane. This was supposed to be six months, remember?’

Was Mick’s memory bad, or did he just not care? Brad had agreed to hit Grafton, in part, for a share of whatever money they found in the cottage, but mostly because he wouldn’t get the chance again. In six months he’d be living in Thailand with Ian, who was transferring to a branch of his company out there. The Ramirez angle, he’d been promised, would muddy the murder investigation long enough to let it go cold. But now the cops were on the cusp of getting Brad’s name. And when they learned of his plans to emigrate, their suspicions would increase and they’d lob a spanner in the works. It was all set for six months from now, not a couple of bloody days.

Mick’s great plan was: ‘So you fly out in a couple of days, and then your bloke goes on the sick for six months.’

Brad cursed. ‘Christ, Mick, there’s visas to get, a house to sell. Ian’s going caravanning with his brother in April. It can’t happen, it ain’t possible. And even if everything was ready to go, and the sickness thing was possible, I’d have to tell him what’s going on, wouldn’t I? How’s that going to work? He thinks I gave all that crime shit up way back. If he even thought I nicked a Twix from the corner shop, he’d leave me. Now I’m supposed to tell him I’m on the run from the cops for triple murder and we’ve got to escape the country right now? No, you’ve got to sort this out.’

‘How? The Ramirez plan was good, but now it’s out the window and we deal with it. The cops want you, Brad. Like it or not, you don’t have six months to sign forms, show people around a house and look at fucking holiday photos of some caravan park.’

‘Well, you’ve got to do something. I can’t hide from the cops. And even if Ian never found out I’m on the run, what about the cash? I was supposed to have some magical luck on the horses each week to explain earning ninety grand in six months. I whip out that much dough in a few days’ time, he’ll know it’s nicked. No, Mick. You’re supposed to be smarter than everyone else, so prove it. Fucking sort this out.’

Silence, as Mick thought. For a moment he worried that Mick would abandon him because he already had his escape plan ready to go. But he had to trust that their history guaranteed loyalty. Brad was the one who had made everything possible up until this point. Without Brad, Grafton would be walking around still, untouched and untouchable. Mick had to respect that.

‘I’m working on a plan,’ he said. ‘Then that’ll just leave the bitch. If she can tell the police who you are, the solution is to make sure she can’t tell anyone anything, right? So, go do what I said. You can have Seabury. But you save her for me, right?’

A pause from Brad as he thought about this. There was nothing he could do, so he had to leave it up to Mick. This relaxed him somewhat. ‘That tosspot Ramirez really call me a Nancy-boy?’

Mick started laughing again.