“Nah, you’re all right,” says Mickey. “Let’s just watch the match.”
“They’re not going to catch you, Mickey,” says Steve. “You’re too good.”
“Nothing to catch me for,” says Mickey.
Steve smiles. “Why don’t you just tell me something about yourself that’s true?”
“Something that’s true?”
“No comebacks, no recordings, just you and me. Would be a relief after so many years of lying, no?”
The corner of Mickey’s mouth goes up. Every criminal wants to tell the truth eventually. Enough of the truth to be seen but not enough of the truth to be convicted.
“Okay,” Mickey begins. “You asked for it. At the age of fourteen I started to follow the milk carts around, on an old bicycle.”
“I remember the milk carts,” says Steve.
“Different cart, different route each day. I’d steal the pints of milk from Bethnal Green doorsteps, and then sell them on later to all the people furious their milk hadn’t arrived.”
“Enterprising,” says Steve.
“After two weeks or so, and a nice bit of cash, which went straight into the building society, I got nicked by an off-duty police officer who was coming home from banging someone or other. Five in the morning, shirt flapping out of his flies. Anyway, I get away with a caution that time, and I took it seriously. I swore I’d never be arrested again and, fifty-four years later, I’m pleased to say I never have been. Never even had a speeding ticket, and that’s the God’s honest. Who else can say that?”
“Me,” says Steve.
Mickey laughs. “The thing is with the police, you know they have a radar, and your only job is to stay under it. It’s not rocket science.”
“And you’ve stayed under the radar?” Steve asks.
Mickey shrugs. “I’ve known an awful lot of criminals, some very successful ones too. But one by one they make mistakes and get arrested, or they make different mistakes, and somebody kills them.”
“Like you killed Rob Kenna,” says Steve. “Things were closing in on you a bit?”
“Careful, Steve,” says Mickey. “We’re just two old fellas having a chat. Don’t spoil it.”
“You had to do it yourself, though, didn’t you?” says Steve. “Usually when you have people killed you get Rob to do it for you. But you couldn’t hire him to kill himself.”
“You’re a very interesting man, Mr. Steven Wheeler of Axley, Hampshire,” says Mickey. “You’re wasted in the scented-candle business.”
“So you know who I am?” says Steve.
“Of course,” says Mickey. “I’ve had people looking into you. But you won’t find out a thing about me that I don’t want you to know.”
Steve smiles now. “You’re one of the richest criminals in the world, Mickey. And I’m just a private eye from a sleepy village. You know I can’t prove anything.”
“Got that right,” says Mickey.
“But I do know that you’re François Loubet,” says Steve.
“You don’t know a thing, Steve Wheeler,” says Mickey. “God bless you for even trying.”
“François Loubet ordered the deaths of six people,” says Steve. “And he ordered the death of my daughter-in-law. And I believe he shot Rob Kenna around three hours ago.”
“Sounds like a wrong ’un,” says Mickey. “But he’s not me.”
“You think your grandmothers would be proud of you?”
“Excuse me?” Steve sees Mickey’s hackles rise.
“You think they’d be proud of how you make a living?”
“You don’t talk about them,” says Mickey. “Now let’s enjoy the football before I have to make another phone call and have you dealt with.”
“Well, you can’t ring Rob Kenna anymore,” says Steve.
“What are you?” says Mickey, staring at Steve. “Arsenal fan?”
“Millwall,” says Steve. “You think your two grans would be proud that you walked out of your front door this afternoon, walked across a sandy track into a copse by the golf course, big bag in your hand, lay in wait for Rob Kenna, and then shot him dead?”
“You’re delusional,” says Mickey. “It’s the sun.”
“And then ran back to the safety of your house before the first siren even sounded? Without even zipping the bag back up? They’d be proud of that, would they?”
“You know nothing about my nans,” says Mickey. “Don’t try to wind me up. It won’t work.”
“I know something about them,” says Steve. “I know their names.”
Mickey looks at Steve over his pint.
