Couldn’t blame them. ‘Give him a phone: I need to know if Evans saw anything suspicious – cars, people – over the last couple of days.’
Mind you, they’d have to be pretty open-minded mobsters to find their accountant an old man to torture and rape…
‘Sarge?’
Logan blinked. ‘Right…You two go grab a cup of tea. I’ve got some calls to make.’
48
Richard Knox shivers, standing at yet another bedroom window, wrapped only in his granny’s patchwork quilt. The one that smells of old woman and cat.
The back garden’s pretty, like one of them Christmas cards with robins on it, all plants and snow and ice and that. Fresh flakes floating down like cigarette ash.
His hand hurts even more now. Can barely move the first three fingers, they’re so swollen.
He pulls the quilt tighter around his shoulders, then creeps over to the door and puts his ear against it.
They’re arguing again.
Arguing about him.
‘…
Richard goes back to the window. Gives the sash a one-handed tug, even though he knows it’s locked. What’s he going to do: jump down into the garden, clamber over the back fence and run away into the snow with his cock hanging out and a quilt round his shoulders? Like a pervert playing Batman?
The big bloke with the grey hair’s right: he’d freeze to death.
So instead Richard settles back on the edge of the bed and clutches his granny’s old bible to his naked chest.
He sniffs, wipes his nose with the palm of his good hand, then smears the silvery slime on the bare mattress. At least it’s stopped bleeding.
Not exactly what he’d had in mind, is it? Naked in some strange bedroom, waiting for them to decide how they’re going to make him suffer.
03:10, YESTERDAY MORNING
There’s a knock at the door.
Richard stands there in the bedroom of his bland little Sacro flat, eyes closed, swearing. Then hauls his trousers up again.
Mood’s ruined now.
He gathers his things – the quilt Granny Murray made, the suitcase with Grandad Joe’s clothes in it, the plastic bag.
Lying on the bed, Harry just cries.
Richard hauls everything he owns to the front door and opens it.
There’s a man standing in the corridor outside: pale leather jacket, black ski-mask over his head, sawn-off shotgun in his hands. Very sinister. Richard hands him the suitcase. ‘You’re early.’
Someone else steps up, done up in IRA chic like his mate. ‘Where are they?’
‘You can put the guns away. I’ve taken care of me minders. Now—’
A fist slams into Richard’s stomach. His knees give way and he thumps to the carpet, arms wrapped around his aching innards. Breath coming in ragged gulps.
No – this wasn’t the deal. This isn’t right!
The first man shoves past, and his mate steps up and kicks Richard in the chest, hard enough to flip him over onto his back. It’s like being shot, but all he can do is gasp, can’t even struggle as they drag him back into the flat.
Clunk, the door closes.
Man Number Two stops dead, staring into the bathroom. Then he peels off his ski-mask, exposing a face like skimmed milk. His jaw falls open, eyes wide. Then he turns to Richard. ‘You dirty…’
Another kick, this one hard enough to make Richard fold up like a fortune cookie, clutching his aching balls, moaning, tears streaming down his face.
The other one says, ‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’
‘Bathroom. Look in the bathroom.’
‘Fucking hell…’
Another kick.
‘There’s someone else in here!’
Silence.
