It's taken me all my time to get here and now I am, I'm set to turn on my heels and hit the road. Morris knows I'm straight, but he still wants a word. That doesn't make sense and my stomach knots. The guy hasn't done a legal thing in his life, so what does he want with me?

There's only one way to find out.

I walk to the pub doors, pull them open. Inside, the place is dead. As I head to the bar, the doors close behind me like a gunshot. I flinch. Brian gives me a matey smile from behind the bar. A fat, balding guy with a moon face. He's nice enough, but he's one of the defeated. He'd let the world and his dog walk all over him if it meant avoiding trouble. Which is why he's in this hole. And he won't stop digging until he's six feet under.

Brian nods to me. 'Y'alright?'

'Been better,' I say.

'Drink?'

'Nah, I'm not staying long. He here?'

'He's in the lounge. He's expecting you.'

I push open the door to the lounge. It glides across the carpet with a whisper. Morris Tiernan sits in the corner, dressed in a dark blue Adidas tracksuit. Light from the frosted window next to him catches a large scar above his left eye. He's reading The Racing Post, a pint of Guinness on the table next to the paper. One hand rocks a pushchair. A toddler with a face like a bag of marbles is fast asleep.

The lounge door clicks shut. Part of me thinks it just locked. The same part of me starts panicking.

Morris looks up from the paper. 'Callum.' I smile. My cheeks hurt. 'You wanted to see me, Mr Tiernan.'

'Yeah, take a seat.'

I look around for a chair. Nothing but leather-cushioned stools, built for midgets. I pick one up, buckle a little under its weight, and drag it over to Morris' table. Then I plant myself on it as casually as I can. My knees press into my chest. I look like I'm in pain.

'Who d'you reckon in the three-thirty Chepstow?'

'I'm not much for the horses. I wouldn't know where to begin.'

He scans the paper, bright blue eyes twinkling under a heavy brow. He takes a drag off a Rothmans and rubs it out in a large ashtray. Then he raises his head, stares at me. Sizing me up. I've changed since he saw me last, and he's noting each and every difference.

'You look better,' he says. 'Strangeways ironed you out.'

'Yeah.'

'That's good. Glad it had that effect on you. Don't want to end up like your brother.'

'He's fine.'

'Is he?'

'He's clean now.'

Morris raises his eyebrows. One of them doesn't move very far thanks to the scar tissue. 'Good for him. So what you doing these days?'

'This and that. I'm still on licence.'

'That's a shitter. Your PO a prick?'

'They all are.'

I hear you're working down Paulo Gray's club.'

'Yeah.'

'He's a good lad, Paulo. You ever see him fight?'

'Not professionally.'

'I saw him fight once down the Apollo. He had a good combination on him, but he didn't have the balls to follow through on it. He could take a knock with the best of 'em, though.'

'I heard he was a good fighter.'

'He still work out?'

'We still spar.'

'Got to keep on top of your game.' He folds the paper, drops it on the seat next to him. Then he takes a long drink from the Guinness. His Adam's apple jumps as he swallows. He replaces the pint glass on its condensation ring and regards me. 'So you're a hardboiled dick now,' he says, making it sound like a personal threat.

'Sorry?'

'You do detective work. That's what I heard.'

'Nowt as flash as that, Mr Tiernan.'

'You find runaways?' I have done.'

'Good. I need you to find me a runaway.'

I feel sick. 'Listen, no disrespect, Mr Tiernan — '

'People say that, Callum, then they say something really fuckin' rude.' Morris' fingers tighten around the pushchair handle. The toddler's still asleep. He looks like he'd reach into the buggy and snap the kid's neck just to prove a point. And here I am with the spit gone from my mouth, trying to think of a way to say no.

'Nah, I don't mean to be rude.' I clear my throat. 'I'm not going to be rude.' Cut myself off before I start babbling. 'All I'm saying is that I might not be the guy for the job.'

Morris lets go of the pushchair. He lights a cigarette and stares at me through the smoke, unblinking. 'You're a good lad, Callum. Don't think I forgot what you did for Mo. That was beyond the call. You're straight; I can respect that. That's why what I'm offering is on the level. I wouldn't want you to get recalled. That's a kick in the bollocks.'

I nod to myself, try to control my breathing. Jesus, why am I so scared?

Because I know what he's like. I know how dangerous he can be. It's not like Mo. Mo's just a headcase. He'd top you and then puzzle about what to do with the body. Morris is the kind of bloke who has a shallow grave already prepared. And right now, the idea of a wood-chip burial is enough to make the back of my neck sweat.

'What is it?' I ask.

'Like I said, you find me a runaway. Simple as.'

'What kind of runaway?'

Morris flicks ash from the end of the cigarette. 'He's a dealer. Used to be, anyway. He worked for me until last week. That's when he went missing. And so did a sizeable amount of my money.'

'A dealer?'

He smiles; his teeth look bleached. 'Cards. I have a vested interest in some of the clubs round here. He was a blackjack dealer.'

'How much money are we talking about?'

'Ten grand.'

I try not to look surprised. 'I thought casinos had strict security.'

'Who said anything about casinos? I said clubs.'

'Right.' So the job's not legit. I had no reason to think it would be. But it's a hell of a lot more legal than I was expecting. 'What's the dealer's name?'

'Rob Stokes.'

'Anything more formal than Rob?'

'It's short for Robbin' Bastard. Who cares? The guy took my money.'

'So this isn't a runaway. This is a thief.'

'He ran away. That makes him a runaway. The fact that he stole from me's just another reason I want him found.'

'You have any leads?'

He bristles. 'If I had leads, I'd be chasing them up myself, son. It's not my job to have leads.'

I wish I'd bought a drink now, something to calm my nerves. And I wish I'd had the guts to say no straight off the bat. 'What happens when I find him?'

'You got a mobile?'

'Yeah.'

'Then I'll give you Mo's number. You find him, you give Mo a call and he'll take care of the rest.'

'Mo! Mo money, mo problem!'

That were Rossie, shouting across a crowded pub at me and Baz when we came through the doors. Rossie were wearing that leather jacket he said were Ted Baker, which were fuckin' bollocks, and made him look like double the twat he already was. Honest, like, a ginger cunt like Rossie, he'd look a twat in most stuff. But this jacket were his pride and joy. It hung off him like it were three sizes too big, which it probably fuckin' were. And Rossie didn't have the kind of hardness to carry it off. He were too small to be dangerous- looking, but that's why I liked him. Cunts reckoned they could start on him until he jammed that butterfly he carried in their balls. Surprise, surprise.

The place were chocka, the lunch trade in full swing. The landlord here did a fine line in proper Corrie Betty hot-pots, all meat and gravy and rank veggies. I wouldn't touch 'em with yours, like. Because I knew the lad what punted the meat on to this place. And beef didn't used to fuckin' miaow, know what I mean? Rossie did his upward nod from the bar and I jerked me head in response, did a saunter through the crowd. Digged a fucker in the ribs like I wanted to. He turned with a full-on wanker face. I gave him the teeth and he backed right off. Like I reckoned, soft as shite.

'Y'alright, Mo? Baz the spaz?'