meant she could not get comfortable. It was like sleeping with a restless dog.
‘ What time is it?’ she groaned groggily.
Luton told her.
There was another knock on the door.
‘ Who is it?’ she asked.
‘ Dunno.’ He slid out of bed, covering his nakedness with a dressing gown.
He went to the bedroom window and peered out, shading his eyes with his hands like goggles. The weather had really turned and sleet was blasting down the avenue on an icy wind. Luton could make out the dark shape of a man at the front door, huddled up against the elements. He couldn’t see who it was. ‘Might be Henry,’ he said. ‘I left him a note to contact me.’
Annie turned over and disappeared underneath the quilt. ‘Well, tell him to get stuffed,’ she murmured. Seconds later she was back in the land of snooze.
Luton let the curtain fall back into place. He slid his feet into his moccasin slippers and went downstairs. The front door was solid with just one pane of mottled glass in it. He pushed his face up to it, peering out, flattening his nose. ‘Henry?’ he called.
Luton could not identify the person properly but when there came a muffled, ‘Yeah,’ in reply he breathed out in relief. Despite the time, Luton was pleased Henry had turned up. There were some burning issues to discuss.
He slid the chain off, pulled back the two bolts, unlocked the mortise and opened the door. A strong gust of Arctic cold wind whipped in around his bare legs and gripped his testicles.
The figure outside had his back to Luton, standing in shadow.
‘ Henry?’
The figure turned. Luton recognised the face immediately and registered the gun in the man’s right hand. It had a bulbous silencer on it.
A hushed Thk! hardly made an inroad into the sounds of the night. The bullet drove into Luton’s forehead, spun like a missile through his brain and exited out of the back of his skull.
He was dead. Standing, but dead.
His legs buckled like a sucker-punched boxer. They collapsed under him and he toppled over, blood gushing in a torrent all over the hallway.
Just to make sure, the man leaned forwards, placed the gun at Luton’s temple and put two more in because it was surprising how some people lived if you didn’t make certain.
Annie woke for some reason, not quite sure why. She shivered. It was ever so cold in the bedroom. Her arm, which had been out of the quilt, was like a block of ice.
She rolled over, pulling the cover over her head, and reached out for her husband — who was not there.
Startled by this, she came fully awake and opened her eyes. It was still dark. She focused on the digital clock-face on the bedside cabinet. 6.20. God, it was so cold. And where was he? What was Derek doing up at this time of day?
Somewhere in the recess of her mind she recalled the two o’clock knock on the door.
Four hours ago. Surely Henry had gone home!
She climbed out of bed and hastily grabbed her fluffy dressing gown and bunny-rabbit slippers.
It was bloody freezing on the landing. Real penguin temperatures. A gale was blowing, as if the front door was open. She switched the landing and hall lights on.
She’d almost reached the foot of the stairs before she realised what she was looking at, lying in a lake of congealed blood and half-covered in wet slush.
She sank to her knees, her hands covering the silent scream.
She was unable to do anything, but stare.
Then she found her voice and started an unworldly, inhuman wail of horror.
Chapter Eleven
The three men met at an exclusive golf and country club set in the high, lovely countryside between Blackburn and Bolton. This was where all their meetings took place. The club was owned by one of the men and the other two held small, but profitable stakes.
The owner made the arrangements for the meetings with the management of the club (which was scrupulously operated) to ensure they would not be disturbed for at least two hours while they used the pool and the sauna. It was a good atmosphere in which the men could relax and unwind and discuss business matters.
The meetings usually concluded in the same way: girls were brought in for two of them, and a young man for the third.
They always arrived and departed separately, at least twenty minutes apart.
That Wednesday morning was an emergency meeting.
It had snowed overnight and the hills were covered with a white blanket. It was not pleasant flaky snow, but wet and slushy and grimy.
The first of the men to arrive was the owner of the club, Ronnie Conroy.
He had learned his lesson from Blackpool and now, as well as his driver, he was accompanied by two armed goons. No one was going to sneak up on him again.
The big Mercedes purred up the long driveway, past a couple of snow-covered trees and greens, stopping outside the grand entrance to the club.
Conroy walked straight into the club, striding quickly through the reception foyer and into the manager’s office. After checking the arrangements had been made, he went to the changing rooms and got into his swimming gear. He dived into the heated pool and swam a few slow lengths whilst he considered matters.
Ronnie Conroy was a worried man.
There are perhaps a hundred and fifty to two hundred people, all men, who are the top operators and control eighty per cent of the UK drugs trade and they lead lives of lavish wealth, often in communities far away from their trading heartlands. They are far removed from street dealers and the day-to-day violence of bars, housing estates and night clubs upon which they shower their product.
With a few exceptions, these men all reside in houses with swimming pools, stable blocks and acres of grounds. They own race horses, private planes or helicopters and homes abroad; the ones with children send them to private schools. Many are active within their adopted communities, living apparently blameless lives, supporting churches, charities and often find themselves on school boards.
They all own legitimate businesses which act as a front for their more nefarious activities; they are usually cash based businesses, more often than not in retailing.
Ronnie Conroy, one-time partner of John Rider, had grown into one of these top operators.
What Conroy really imagined himself to be was a businessman, not a gangster. The words Company Director were proudly displayed on his passport. The fact that the bulk of his company’s profits came from supplying drugs, prostitution and selling guns was something he never mentioned in polite company. In fact, his neighbours in Osbaldeston, a leafy village on the outskirts of Blackburn, believed he was a car dealer.
Conroy had been connected to Rider for many years, and another man called Munrow. The three of them had bonded professionally, though their personalities often clashed, and had built up an empire of criminal activity in the east of Lancashire and Manchester which had operated for well over ten years from the mid-seventies. Hard, violent years. Much of their time had been spent kicking the shit out of other would-be’s to keep their own heads out of the sewage.
The profits had been good, but not as substantial as they could have been in a more peaceful, cooperative regime.
Conroy had realised this, but his pleas to Rider and Munrow to make peace with other gangs fell on deaf
