Blake was really very ill, sweat all over his face. He said to Don Marco, 'Why the hell I don't kill you, I'll never know, but we ruined your nephew, killed the bastard and his men. I think I'd rather leave you to chew on that.'
He turned, and he and Ferguson walked away. Dillon lit a cigarette. 'He's one of the good guys, Blake, wants to improve the world. Even Ferguson still tries, but not me. I've found life more disappointing than I'd hoped, so to hell with you.' He slapped Don Marco back-handed across the face, reached for his ankles, and tossed him over into the river. The fog swirled. A cigar butt floated smouldering on the water. It was over.
They were waiting for him in the Daimler on Charing Cross Pier. Ferguson said, 'Taken care of?'
Dillon nodded. 'Whichever gang took out Jack Fox and his men in Cornwall was obviously laying in wait for Don Marco here. Another Mafia execution. Very messy.'
'All in all, then,' Ferguson said, 'a satisfactory night.'
'Except for one thing.' They turned to the figure who sat slumped and ashen in the dark. Blake looked at them, his eyes burning. 'It won't bring her back.'
And to that, there was no answer.
