And that was what he was doing when the police car arrived.

It took him an hour to talk his way out of it. They took him to the police station. The desk sergeant knew who he was, and didn’t believe his story. Some kids, joyriders, smashing their way through the gates and then running off… Don Empson, concerned citizen, completely innocent, checking the scene.

‘I wanted to make sure they hadn’t damaged anything.’

‘So the car’s not yours, sir?’

‘Never seen it in my life.’

When they let him go, he breathed the cold night air and took his phone out of his pocket. Nothing else for it. He would have to bring in Sam and Eddie. They always travelled together. They’d been best pals since primary school, nutters, the pair of them. But that wasn’t really the problem. Problem was, he couldn’t let them know what he knew. He couldn’t let them know Benjy was the shooter.

Because Benjy was family. He was Don’s family, his nephew. And if Don didn’t get to him first, the lad was as good as dead. Always supposing he wasn’t dead already. Don felt a stabbing pain in his stomach. He rubbed at it, for all the good that would do. Benjy, you bloody idiot. No happy ending.

He thought back to the garage, how it had taken him a couple of seconds to recognise Benjy’s build and voice. He’d been on the point of saying something when the first shot had rung out. And afterwards, just for a moment, Benjy’s wide, scared eyes had met his. Then he’d screwed his eyes shut. Chest wound. Should Don have stopped him driving off? Should he have called out, Let me get you to a doctor? Probably. The question now was, had Benjy known it would be his uncle in charge of the cash? If so, he’d gambled either that he wouldn’t be recognised, or that Don wouldn’t grass him up.

Big gamble.

It came down to that moment of eye contact. There had been no surprise there, so Benjy had expected Don, and, furthermore, had expected to be clocked by him…

Happy to land his uncle in the mire.

‘Cuts both ways, lad,’ Don said to the night air, rubbing his stomach again.

Stewart Renshaw was in one of his casinos when he got a call from his brother.

‘George,’ he said into the phone. ‘Did everything go as planned?’

The silence on the other end of the line was enough of an answer. Stewart’s face tightened and he decided the gaming floor was too public. There were only a few punters in, but it was still early, not quite midnight. He pushed open a door marked PRIVATE and entered a hallway used by the staff. There was nobody around.

‘Talk to me, George,’ he said.

‘There was a bit of trouble,’ Gorgeous George finally owned up. ‘Someone came in with a gun, shot Raymond and took the cash.’

‘Is Raymond all right?’

‘Funeral job.’

Stewart leaned against the door and closed his eyes. ‘What about Hanley?’

‘Nobody else got hurt… except the shooter.’

‘Is he dead, too?’

‘Raymond shot him in the chest. He won’t get far.’

‘But he’s got my money?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you told me it was a piece of cake!’ Stewart hissed. ‘Don’t tell me you sent Sam and Eddie?’

‘Don Empson.’

‘He’s well past his sell-by date.’

‘Dad always liked him.’

‘Dad’s in the past, George. All of that’s in the past.’ Stewart ran a hand through his hair, trying to think. He was tall and thin and didn’t look at all like George. This had led him to wonder, had their mum had an affair? George looked like their dad, but not Stewart. Bit late to do anything about it, but all the same… it might explain a few things.

‘So what are you going to do?’ he asked.

‘Check the hospitals. Shooter took Don’s car, so we’re looking for that, too. But can you talk to Hanley, see how he’s doing?’

‘I’ll talk to him. But don’t forget, it’s my money, George. Someone’s got to pay.’

‘Okay, Stewart. Is the club busy tonight?’

‘Dead.’

‘It’ll get better.’

Stewart wanted to slap his brother, wanted to punch him in his soft, fat face. But he wouldn’t. He was a proper businessman these days. He had to keep his distance from everything in his past.

He had to stay clean.

He ended the call and gave the nearest wall a couple of butts with his head. What did he do now, phone Hanley or visit him in person? How could he visit him when his driver hadn’t turned up for work yet? And besides, the whole point of using George’s guys for the handover was so he himself could steer clear of Hanley.

It was cleaner that way.

‘If a job needs doing,’ he muttered to himself. He went to the main office and asked if anyone had seen Benjy Flowers. There were shrugs and shakes of the head.

‘As useless as his bloody Uncle Don.’ Then, to the room: ‘Soon as he gets here, send him along.’ Leaving the room, Stewart reached into his pocket for his phone.

The home of Councillor Andrew Hanley

Andrew Hanley was back home, seated in a chair in his darkened study with a glass of whisky in one hand. He still had the shakes. His wife was downstairs. When he’d come home, she’d called to him from the kitchen. He’d called back, but made his way up the stairs and into his study, closing the door after him. When the door was closed, she wouldn’t come in. It meant he was working. The only light came from the lamp post directly outside the window. He could see his desk, covered with paperwork. His degree was framed on the wall. So were photos of him meeting important people, people from sports and TV and business. As a city dignitary, he got to meet lots of people.

But he wished now that he’d never met Stewart Renshaw.

It had all been very friendly at first, very sociable. He accepted an invite to dinner at one of Stewart’s casinos. He accepted some free gaming chips. Then there was another visit, and more chips. The place seemed well run. It wasn’t full of gangsters or lowlifes. It was respectable. Okay, so Stewart was Albert Renshaw’s son, and Albert’s nickname had been ‘The Godfather’. But Stewart had washed his hands clean of all that. He never saw his kid brother George; spoke to him twice a year. Stewart was above board, or seemed so at first.

There had been a day at the races, again as Stewart’s guest. ‘Bring the wife,’ he’d been told. But he’d lied and said she was busy. He wanted an adventure all of his own. He met good-looking women. He met friendly and powerful men. He had a good time. Once, he was offered drugs, a snort of cocaine in the toilets, but he refused. Champagne was quite enough for him.

Back then, it had all seemed enough.

His phone started to vibrate. He lifted it from his pocket and looked at the screen. It was Stewart. Hanley decided not to answer. What was he going to say to the man? It had crossed his mind that the whole thing was a set-up, some sort of play being acted out, so as to cheat him out of the money. But the guns and the blood had seemed real. The fear and the anger had seemed real. Not just special effects, but blood and smoke and the flash from the two guns. And such loud bangs. Three of them. He’d run to his car, hitting another vehicle as he reversed at speed. He had fled the scene of a crime, the scene of a murder. Him: Councillor Andrew Hanley. Head of Planning. And now this…

No, he would not answer his phone. He would not speak to Stewart Renshaw. He would drink his whisky and stare at the wall. Then his wife called to him from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Andrew?’

He didn’t answer.

‘Andrew?’

But then that might make her suspicious.

‘Andrew?’

‘What is it?’

‘Your shoes.’ Yes, his shoes, he had left them just inside the front door. It was one of Lorna’s rules, no shoes in the house.

‘What about them?’

‘Did you step in something? Some red stuff?’