for his wife's death, who had put the weight on his back in the first place, the man who was responsible for Delaney being shot, for the murder of Derek Watters, for the attack on Kevin Norrell. The man responsible for all that was going to look in his eyes today. That man was going to look in his cold, brown eyes and regret he had ever heard the name Jack Delaney. Today was the day for drawing a line.
A crowd of loudly smug media types spilled out of the Groucho Club as he passed, knocking into him and making him wince as his shoulder jarred. Any other day he would have had words, but today he kept his head down. The pieces of the puzzle were finally coming together and Delaney had no time for petty distractions.
He looked at his watch. Two o'clock. He used his less damaged shoulder to push a door open and walked into one of the new breed of bars that had sprung up in the area. All polished wood and chrome and bright lights. Might as well be drinking in an IKEA store, he reckoned, but today he hardly registered it. He ordered a large whisky straight up and downed it one. He ordered another and held out his hand looking at the slight tremble in his fingers. He put it down to his injuries. His nervous system was shot to pieces, that's all it was.
He finished his second drink and left the pub, crossing over the street fifty yards further up the road and heading down a narrow cul-de-sac, at the end of which was a small club called Hot Totty. It didn't open until the late afternoon, but Delaney waited for a moment or two and then taking a deep breath he pulled a balaclava over his head, pushed the door open and went inside. A thin man in his mid-twenties was behind the counter of a small bar refilling the spirit optics. He called over his shoulder as he heard the door.
'We're not open.'
'I've not come for a lap dance.'
The man turned round and nearly dropped the bottle of whisky he was holding. Delaney was pointing a gun straight at him.
'Hey, I just work here.'
'Is he in the back?'
The barman nodded nervously.
'You got a good memory, son?'
The barman considered it for a bit not sure what he was supposed to say. 'No, sir.'
Delaney jerked his thumb at the door behind him. 'Get out then. You want to stay alive, keep it that way.'
The man held his hands up, nodding and scuttling out of the door like a scorpion on a hot skillet.
Delaney thought about Mickey Ryan as he watched the barman scurry away. There wasn't a detective in the Met who hadn't come up against him in one way or another. But he was the original Teflon man, nothing stuck to him. Witnesses were silenced, detectives were bought off, blackmailed or terrorised. He was a brutal, vicious, successful, self-made man. A shining example of everything Thatcher's Britain had created.
Delaney took off the balaclava. He didn't care if Mickey Ryan saw him. In fact he wanted him to know who was putting him in the ground.
He walked to the back of the small auditorium, past the stage and the pole, not even registering the slightly sour smell of body oil that tainted the air like a cheap perfume.
It wasn't hard to find Ryan's office. He pushed the door open holding the gun forward and walked in. It was a windowless room, but glowed with opulence. Rich carpeting, Tiffany-style lamps, artwork on the walls. His dead wife's brother-in-law would fit right in here, Delaney thought. Mickey Ryan was sitting behind a large desk typing on a laptop. He looked up, bored.
'What do you want, Delaney?'
Delaney gestured at the cubic man who stood not far from his boss.
