‘I told you. Every penny.’
Myra glared at him. ‘And you just accepted it and sent him on his way?’
‘Course not.’
‘Then what did you do? Put a bullet in him? Break his legs?’
‘No. I told him it wasn’t enough.’
‘I see. And you thought that a verbal warning was adequate, did you?’
‘He got the message.’
‘Really? When you didn’t give him so much as a flick on his ear?’
‘Mam. I threatened him with the gun. He understands. But to be honest . . .’ He let it fade out. He wasn’t sure he should be injecting a note of pessimism into this discussion.
‘What?’
‘Nothing.’
‘No, go on. Make my day even more miserable than it already is.’ She tapped the black armband she was still wearing. ‘I shouldn’t need to remind you that your brother is never coming back to us. Not ever. Those sons of bitches took him away, and now they need to pay.’
‘With money?’
Myra slammed her palms on the table. ‘With whatever it fucking well takes! With their worthless lives, if necessary. I’m not letting them get away with this, and I hope you’re not thinking that way either. So go ahead. Enlighten me. Let me know what’s on your mind so that I can set you straight again. Jesus, Ronan, I thought you were better than this.’
Ronan considered staying mute, but anger drove the words from his lips.
‘I was about to say that it doesn’t matter what we do. That family don’t have any more money. I’ve been to their crummy flat. They don’t have a pot to piss in. We can threaten them all we want, hurt them all we want, but there’s no way they’re going to come up with twenty-five grand. So if you want me to go back there and leave the parents more brain-dead than their moronic son, that’s fine. But just accept that they’re never going to find the dough.’
He found he was panting after his rant, but he felt so much better for it. Even his mother appeared surprised at how the worm had turned. She picked up her glass and sat back, a curious smile on her blubbery lips.
‘I know.’
Ronan frowned. ‘Know what?’
‘That this Timpson bloke isn’t going to come up with the goods. Not without some help. That’s why I need him to believe we’re people he can’t mess with.’
‘Mam, what are you talking about?’
She took a slug of gin, started pouring another. ‘I know what you think of me,’ she said. ‘You think I’m past it. That I’m just your old mum, drinking herself gaga and with no idea of what’s going on in the real world.’
‘Mam, that’s not what I—’
‘Well, let me tell you something. I’ve been ducking and diving since well before you were born. Your dad didn’t get where he was all by himself, you know. We worked together, and I still know a thing or two. So, while you’ve been pissing around like an amateur, I’ve been making some enquiries.’
‘What kind of enquiries? What’s this got to do with Joey?’
‘Everything. I’m not finished with those bastards who murdered him. Not by a long chalk. They don’t know what I’m capable of.’
Even Ronan felt a little afraid now.
‘And what are you capable of ?’
‘Plan B.’
‘Plan B?’
‘Yes, lad. Plan B.’
35
Scott spent most of his morning throwing furtive glances towards Gavin, waiting for the right opportunity. But every time he summoned up the nerve, the phone would ring or a customer would arrive, and the moment was gone.
At just before eleven o’clock, he went over to the sink and filled the kettle.
‘Fancy a brew?’ he called.
‘Always,’ Gavin answered. ‘Have we got any chocolate digestives left?’
‘Well, I didn’t finish them off yesterday, so unless you’ve been rooting . . .’
He poured water over two bags of Yorkshire tea. Two heaped spoonfuls of sugar in Gavin’s mug. Gavin was just finishing off on a Volkswagen. There wouldn’t be a better opportunity. It had to be now or never.
Scott’s mobile trilled. He looked at the screen. It was Ronan.
Shit.
