‘One man. A crim. A standover man. Henry Livingstone.’
Sweetwater looks at Martin. ‘The self-same man who tried to shoot me dead yesterday.’
‘I haven’t forgotten,’ says Martin.
‘Did you know they were stalking me?’ asks Sweetwater.
‘No,’ says Martin. ‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Lucky for you,’ says Sweetwater. ‘Titus, continue.’
Martin interrupts. ‘Can I ask a question?’
Sweetwater frowns. This is his show; he doesn’t want to lose control of its narrative. ‘All right. Just one.’
‘Did she know? Did Clarity Sparkes know what Mollisons was really all about?’
Sweetwater defers to Mollisons’ corporate counsel. ‘Titus?’
‘No. I think she suspected towards the end, but no. She wasn’t a member of the inner sanctum.’
Sweetwater nods to Martin as if in agreement, then says to Titus Torbett, ‘Please continue.’
Torbett junior looks part perplexed, part panicked. ‘Continue where?’
‘What happened to Molloy?’
‘He disappeared. At first we thought the beating had served its purpose. But then we found that money was missing. A lot of money. Molloy had disappeared at exactly the same time. A check of the systems revealed he’d stolen it.’ He pauses. ‘That’s what we thought. Honestly.’
‘Correct,’ says Sweetwater. ‘Get that, Martin? We thought he’d escaped with the money. Titus and I and our employers. We concluded he was a grifter, a very lucky grifter, a very ballsy grifter, probably unaware of whose money he was stealing. Is that how you remember it?’
‘Yes,’ says Torbett, but again Martin can hear the hesitancy in his voice. The lawyer is still unsure where this is leading, why Sweetwater is so eager to incriminate the two of them. Martin is wondering much the same thing: what is the purpose of all this? Sweetwater’s already admitted to being a ranking member of the Chicago mob, confessed to infiltrating Mollisons. Does he want to be cleared of murder? Or does he want to point the finger at those he sees as his persecutors?
‘So who killed Molloy?’ asks Sweetwater, voice soft.
The tension steps up a notch, Martin feels as if his ears are about to pop, as if they’ve abruptly dived deeper. Is Sweetwater about to gift him the scoop of his life?
‘Livingstone,’ suggests Titus. ‘He was told to beat him up, but he fucked up, went too far. He accidentally killed him.’
And Harry Sweetwater laughs, a high-pitched cackle. ‘Accidentally? You shitting me? Someone put three slugs in his head. That ain’t no accident, pal.’
Titus looks at his father, as if begging the old man to believe him. ‘Okay. Someone authorised it. But it wasn’t me. I didn’t know about it. I thought Molloy had escaped with the money.’
‘Really?’ And Sweetwater steps across to Sir Talbot and rests his knife against the judge’s neck. ‘You sure about that?’ he says, the menace in his actions not his voice.
Titus looks terrified, but he sticks to his account. ‘Yes. I knew nothing.’
‘So who authorised it?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Who do you think?’
There is no response until Sweetwater again starts to admire the edge of his knife. There is panic in Titus’s voice now, the suggestion that he might lose control altogether. ‘Why ask me? You clearly know more than I do.’
‘Because you’re a coward; whatever I say, you will agree with me. Scarsden needs to hear it from you. So does your father. So talk, please. Remember, there is no penalty for honesty.’
‘I don’t know. It must have been Clarity. She had him killed, then took the money.’ There is a pause, Martin can almost hear Titus swallowing bile. ‘Or you.’ The last is but a whisper.
And again Sweetwater laughs, the same high-pitched cackle, a little unhinged. He flicks the knife up before his face, twirls the blade, examines its edges. ‘So you really don’t know? Not for sure?’
‘No.’
‘Good answer, Titus. You are doing very well. Tell the truth and nothing will go wrong. Okay? Don’t worry about offending me or incriminating me. Just tell the truth.’ He turns to Martin. ‘For the record, it wasn’t me. And I really doubt Clarity Sparkes would have the bottle to order an execution.’ He turns back to Titus. ‘Who killed your sister and Max Fuller?’ There is silence, long and portentous. The pleasant smile still adorns Sweetwater’s pleasant face, but the amiability in his voice has been replaced with steel. ‘It was nothing to do with me, was it?’
‘No.’
‘Who killed them?’
‘I don’t know. Livingstone and Spitt.’
‘You may be right. But if so, who paid them to do it?’
‘I don’t know. Honestly. Maybe it was you.’
‘Wrong answer,’ says Sweetwater sadly. And with a quick, assured movement, he grabs the judge’s head and slices off the top of one of his ears. There’s a spurt of blood, and Sir Talbot grabs at the slippery mess.
‘You cunt,’ he exclaims.
Sweetwater laughs and tosses the tip of the ear to Titus. It lands in his lap where it squirms slowly, like a dying bug. He looks at it in horror, mouth open, eyes wide, arms straining at the cable ties.
‘Talk,’ says Sweetwater.
‘For God’s sake, get it off me.’
‘Talk.’
‘I don’t know. How could I know?’
This time Sweetwater moves slowly, telegraphing his intentions. ‘Hold still, arsehole,’ he says, taking off all of the judge’s other ear, tossing it towards Titus. It bounces from his lap onto the floor.
‘Jesus Christ,’ weeps the judge, blood seeping out between his fingers as he holds the side of his head.
‘You know, don’t you?’ says Titus, eyes wide.
‘I do. But Martin and your father need to hear it from you. Especially your father.’
‘Fuck you. Kill me then.’ The defiance comes suddenly, with desperation.
Sweetwater sneers. ‘You’re not getting off that lightly, you fucker.’ And he twirls the knife before the cowering judge. ‘What appendage should we take next, Titus? Your choice.’
‘For fuck’s sake, tell him,’ says the judge. ‘You want me to bleed to death?’
‘Wise words,’ says Sweetwater.
There’s a moment there, Martin can see it in the son’s eyes, where all the possibilities narrow down to just one. There is no escape.
‘It was me,’ whispers Titus, his head down, eyes shut.
‘Louder.’
‘Me. I killed them.’
‘You ordered the murder of your own sister?’
‘Yes.’
‘You miserable little cunt,’ says
