At the same time, his own very real dog made a sudden lunge forward. Milly had been straining at her lead from the moment they’d arrived at the flat, clearly intent on a more detailed exploration of her new environment, and Trevor had struggled to keep her in check. On this occasion, however, he was distracted by Logan’s humiliation and was unprepared for the abruptness and power of Milly’s surge. The end of the lead was wrenched from his grasp, and she hurtled across the room and disappeared behind the breakfast bar.
‘Get that damn dog under control,’ Patterson said in an exaggerated stage whisper.
Trevor skirted the breakfast bar to find Milly snuffling manically at the base of one of the kitchen units. He bent down to grab her lead, and as he began to straighten again, he glanced indifferently at the notebook display. But his indifference was short-lived. Thrusting his head forward, he stared in disbelief at the face on the screen.
‘Blood-ee Nor-a,’ he said, each syllable pronounced with slow deliberation.
The woman’s dark brown eyes angled towards him, and her forehead creased into a frown, her head tipped slightly to the side as if straining to get a better view. Her lips moved soundlessly, but Trevor thought he could make out the words “Who’s that behind you?”. He reached for the worktop to steady himself.
‘Imelda? Is that… you?’
* * *
Patterson watched from the window until he was sure that Logan and the others had left the building. While he waited, he pondered his future and tried to convince himself it wasn’t as bleak as it seemed, even though it was abundantly clear from Statham’s conversation with his boss that a letter of resignation would not be unwelcome. So what? He was sick of the job anyway and had only hung on till now to boost his pension by a few more quid. Okay, he wouldn’t exactly be able to live a life of luxury, but at least he only had himself to worry about. Maybe he could get some kind of part-time job. It would be something to do after all. He detested golf and gardening in equal measure, and other than these two activities, he had no idea what retired people did with their time.
‘You bastards just gonna let me bleed to death, are yer?’
Patterson turned slowly and stared down at Harry Vincent’s sweat drenched face with undisguised distaste. ‘Possibly.’
‘Fucking wanker.’
‘What are we going to do with him?’ said Statham. ‘The boss wants us to tidy up here and get the hell out of it.’
Tidy up? Patterson found it amusing that she’d used such a seemingly innocuous phrase when what she really meant was: “Get the stiff to some place where he’s more likely to have been when he croaked, and as for Vincent—”
‘Guv?’
‘Sorry, Colin. Miles away.’
‘Vincent.’
‘Ah yes,’ said Patterson. ‘Leave him to me. You go next door and tell the others to start packing up. And get rid of the plods, but make sure you scare the crap out of them with the Official Secrets Act and all that stuff.’
‘Righto.’
Patterson followed Statham to the door and closed it behind him before taking his gun from his shoulder holster. He walked back over to Vincent, screwing the silencer into place as he went. He knew that he ought to make an effort to find out what had happened to the ransom money, but he doubted Vincent would tell him anything. Besides, it wasn’t his money. Why should he give a toss any more? He planted his feet either side of Vincent’s bulging waistline and aimed at the centre of his forehead, trying to avoid the inevitable look of terror when realisation dawned.
‘What the fuck d’you—’
That’s something, I suppose, Patterson thought as he began to remove the silencer. This is the last time I’ll have to do this sort of shit. Ever. Not that he felt particularly bad about Vincent. The world would be better off without him, and in any case, how could you kill somebody who’d already been dead for two years?
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Trevor didn’t even notice Sandra’s hand reaching towards the toast rack in the centre of the table. His eyes just happened to be pointing in that direction.
‘What?’
The indignation in Sandra’s tone snapped him out of his brooding contemplation. ‘Sorry?’
‘You’re keeping count, aren’t you?’ she said, her fingertips hovering within half an inch of the last remaining slice of toast.
‘Er… sorry?’ Trevor said again.
‘You’re thinking: That’s her third piece. No wonder she’s fat.’
‘No I’m not.’ He hadn’t a clue what she was on about. His mind was awash with rather more important matters than keeping a tally of how many slices of toast she’d eaten. Besides, he’d told her before that he didn’t think she was fat.