“Alright,” Milton said. “That’s enough for now. Go to the police tomorrow. Alright?”

“Yeah,” Pops said sullenly.

“Don’t let me down. It’s important.”

“Aight,” he conceded. “Tomorrow. When will I know you’ve done something.”

“You’ll know.”

35

Milton took the underground to Oxford Circus and emerged, blinking, into the hard bright light of another stifling summer’s day. The temperature had continued its inexorable uptick into the mid-thirties but now it had become damply humid, a wetness that quickly gathered beneath Milton’s armpits and seeped down the middle of his back. The atmosphere lay heavy over the city, a woozy stupor that could only be alleviated with the inevitable thunderstorm that the forecast was predicting for later.

The Sig Sauer in its chamois holster was a heavy, warm lump beneath Milton’s shoulder. The air in the tube had been cloying and dense and Milton was pleased to have left it behind him. The confluence of Regent Street and Oxford Street was a busy scrum of sluggish tourists and frustrated office workers on their lunch breaks. Traffic jammed at the lights, taxi-drivers leaning on their horns to chivvy along the busses that tarried to embark passengers. Tempers were stretched as tight as piano wire, arguments flaring and confrontations held just beneath the surface.

Milton’s phone vibrated in his pocket.

“Hello?” he said.

“Is that John?”

“Who’s this?”

“Rutherford. Is everything alright?”

“I’m a little busy.”

“It’s Saturday afternoon, I’ve been expecting your boy to come for training but there ain’t no sign of him. What’s happening?”

“There’s been a setback,” Milton said as he crossed the road at the lights. “I’m taking care of it. I have to go.”

Milton ended the call. He turned in the direction of the tall, crenulated finger of Centre Point. HMV was fifty yards along the road, the sound of heavy bass throbbing from the wide open doorway into the cavernous space beyond. Milton surveyed the interior: racks of music and films; t-shirts; magazines; and, on a stage that had been erected in middle of the shop, a table and a tall stack of CDs. A long queue of youngsters — mostly young boys, but also a handful of girls — snaked back from the table around the aisles and back almost to the entrance. Behind the table sat six members of BRAPPPP! The collection comprised the better known members of the collective: MC Mafia, Merlin, Icarus, Bredren. The female singer, Loletta, sat in the middle, haughty with her strikingly good looks, a highlight for the hormonal teenage boys who waited to be presented to her.

Milton recognised Bizness from the pictures on his Facebook and Twitter profiles. He was wearing a Chicago Bulls singlet, the top revealing an angular torso: long, skinny arms with the sharp points of his elbows and shoulders. His skin was extensively tattooed, and gold teeth glittered on the rare occasion when he disturbed the studied blankness of his expression to smile. He sat at the head of the table, the last member of the collective to receive the fans, like a king or a mafia don accepting the fealty of his subjects. They came to him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, their CDs passed along the table with him finally adding his mark and sending them on their way. He spoke with some, bumped fists with others, but all left elated by their encounter with their hero. Milton could see, quite clearly, the power that the man — and the lifestyle he typified — had on them. He was an aspirational figure, living proof that the success he rapped about was possible to have. Milton did not respect him for this, but he recognised it, and its influence, and filed it away for future reference.

A large display had been erected at the front of the shop, loaded with the collective’s new album and an assortment of other merchandise. Milton took a copy of the record and a t-shirt and joined the end of the queue. It was moving slowly, and Milton guessed it would take half an hour to get to the front. He did not have the patience to wait for that and, taking advantage of the fact that it would have been difficult to imagine anyone less likely to jump the queue, he made his way to the front. “One minute,” he said to the two young boys who were about to go forwards. “I just need a quick word with him. Won’t hold you up long.”

The table was fenced in by crowd control barriers and two large bouncers stood guard at the entrance to the enclosure. They glared at him as he passed between them. Milton passed along the table, ignoring the others and making his way directly to Bizness.

He stopped in front of him. “Good afternoon,” he said.

Bizness bared his teeth in feral grin, the golden caps sparkling. “Look at this,” he laughed, jutting his chin towards Milton. The others laughed, too. “You in the wrong section, man. Old folks’ music is over there.”

“No, it’s you I want to see.”

Bizness threw up his hands and chuckled again. “Fine, bruv, where’s your record, then? Give it here. What you want me to say?”

“I’m not here about your music.”

“Come on, man, enough of this bullshit. If you ain’t got nothing to sign, get the fuck out the way. Lot of brothers and sisters here been queuing hours see us, you gonna end up causing a motherfucking riot you don’t stop slowing the queue down.”

“I need to talk to you. And you’re going to listen to what I have to say.”

“The fuck —?”

Milton ignored him. He stared at Bizness, his eyes icy and unblinking, with no life or empathy in them, until the confusion on the younger man’s face faded and a cloud of anger replaced it. “I’m going to ask you nicely for two things,” Milton said. “First, a woman named Laura has been associating with you. You are going to stop seeing her. If she comes to visit you, you are going to send her away.”

“That’s your first thing? Aight, go on, you’re an entertaining fucker. What’s the second thing?”

“I know what you’re planning for a young lad I know. Elijah Warriner. You call him JaJa. That is not going to happen. You are to stop seeing him, too. If I hear that you’ve been seen with him there is going to be trouble. If just one hair on his head is hurt, we’re going to have another conversation. But it won’t be as civil as this one.”

“You hear this motherfucker?” Bizness hooted at the others. They were all watching the exchange. “You asking me nicely, right? You better tell me, old man, just so I know, what you gonna do if I tell you to take your requests and shove them right up your arse? Tell me not-so-nicely? Raise your voice? Get out of here, before you make me lose my temper. I ain’t got time for this.”

The bouncers took a step towards Milton but Bizness stayed them with an impatient wave of his hand.

Milton did not look at them. He did not move away from the table. “You won’t take me seriously now, but I’m going to give you a demonstration tonight of what will happen if you ignore my instructions. Something is going to happen to your interests and I want you to think of me and what I’ve told you when you hear about it. Do you understand?”

Bizness surged up from his chair so quickly that it clattered behind him. “Do I understand?” Any vestige of his previous joviality was banished now, his eyes blazing with anger. “You come in here, with my bredderz around me, and you start making threats? Shit, man, you the dumbest motherfucker I ever met. I’m going to tell you one more time — get the fuck out of this shop before I throw you out my goddamn self. Do you understand?”

Bizness stepped around the table and took a step towards Milton. He did not flinch and, instead, fixed his pitiless stare on Bizness’s face. “I’ve said what I needed to say. I hope you understand. I hope you remember. Do what I’ve told you or the next time won’t be so pleasant.”